


Light Before the Dawning

by elxetera



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), F/M, Gabriel (Good Omens) - Freeform, Ghost Hunting, Ghosts, Hastur (Good Omens) - Freeform, How Do I Tag, Human!Aziraphale, Human!Crowley, I Wrote This While Listening to Taylor Swift's Music, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, More tags to be added, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Writing, YouTube, YouTuber Crowley, but guess what, how do i tag without spoiling stuff?, its' being posted now, look this was supposed to be posted in october, slow burn??? more like two idiots standing about on fire, this is my first multichapter bear with me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27371326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elxetera/pseuds/elxetera
Summary: Aziraphale Fell, an intelligent, old-fashioned psychiatrist and well-known parapsychology writer is summoned to Jasmine Cottage after a client claims that the place is haunted. He is hoping to get his next book published as soon as he can, and he is including the personal experiences of his clients after his boss suggested that he should try and make things more relatable for readers.Enter, Anthony Crowley, a sarcastic, witty and attractive YouTuber who creates paranormal investigation videos—and who also annoys Aziraphale to no end. The pair agree to stay out of each other's way for the weeklong stay they are having in Tadfield, but sometimes fending off ghosts isn't something one person can do alone. And sometimes you can get a lot of love from it as well.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 126
Kudos: 79
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I am impatient and half of my validation comes from random reader's comments on the internet, I'm posting this fic today! I was originally going to wait until I had at least half of it finished, but Twitter was getting very enthusiastic and I was done waiting to share it as well, because everyone would've been waiting a lot longer for this to come out otherwise. So, here it is: my Good Omens/Ghost Hunting AU.
> 
> Before we start, yes, I know it is November. I wanted to have this up on Halloween but it just wasn't happening, but I suppose some people like spooky things all year-round. I'm hoping to be able to post this on somewhat of a schedule, but since it's my first multichapter (and since this is me we're talking about), things are bound to be a little chaotic at first. It depends on how long it takes me to write each chapter and of course real life is crazy at the moment. I'm not sure how long this fic will be either, but I doubt it's going to be over 15 chapters. We'll see. 
> 
> If there are any possible triggers throughout the fic, I will make sure you know, and I will put a little * symbol before it is mentioned so you can skip over parts of it. There won't be any NSFW scenes in this, either. I'm a very 'keep-it-PG' person, so you'll get romance but I can't count on the amount of *spice* that will be in it.
> 
> Thanks to my lovely beta Jen (@jenanigans1207) who had to be my biggest cheerleader when it came to writing this—and also probably the reason this is even being published in the first place. Our back and forth chats screaming over our favorite pair of married husbands are always fun and I look forward to them every day.
> 
> Again, a big thanks at the Twitter folks who jumped at this idea when it was merely a "what if I wrote a Good Omens/Ghost Hunting AU?" Tweet. Y'all are fun and I appreciate you. I hope this lives up to your expectations.
> 
> I'll stop talking now, but I hope you enjoy this!

There are a number of Very Important Things that have led Aziraphale Fell ending up in the Oxfordshire village of Tadfield on a quiet Wednesday in October. One of them is the fact that Aziraphale is perhaps one of the most well-known authors of a book discussing the psychological effect of crossing the paranormal. Another reason is that he is currently writing a sequel to the aforementioned book and that his time to have the manuscript into Archer Publishers is rapidly decreasing. But the third, and perhaps the most important reason that he is standing on the doorstep of a place called Jasmine cottage is the fact that it is allegedly haunted. 

Granted, he does not know this to be true. He has merely been told by a client that this place—her house—was supposedly haunted by a ghost, presumably one of her ancestors. 

“The place is haunted. I know it is. I can hear her. I can _feel_ her,” the client, a young woman who went by the name of Anathema Device, had said. She looked down at her feet and then up and past Aziraphale’s shoulder as though she were being watched. Aziraphale had taken a note of that. Even the smallest of movements proved vital when diagnosing clients.

“You said it is a ‘her’,” Aziraphale said. Anathema nodded, biting down hard on her lip. “What is it that makes you sure of their gender?” 

Anathema looked around the room once again and rubbed her hands together. “I just—I just know. I can’t explain it. I can just feel it.” 

Aziraphale scrawled a note down on the yellow pad of paper next to him. “You mentioned earlier you had been having dreams. About her, I mean.”

Anathema nodded solemnly. “Almost every night now. It’s been getting harder and harder to go to sleep.”

“I see. Have you been taking any medication for that, Miss Device?” Aziraphale asked. 

Anathema shook her head. “Not recently. I used to take sleeping pills, but those don’t seem to work anymore.” 

“In our last session, we talked about your mother. Do you think that this ghost you have been dreaming about is some form of her?”

Anathema thought about this for a long moment. She almost seemed to have fallen into her own little world, her dark eyes glazing over in a certain type of way that only happens when someone is experiencing a flashback. 

“Anathema, stay with me, my dear,” Aziraphale said calmly. This wasn’t anything new, however. Many of Aziraphale’s clients seemed to fall down the rabbit hole when thinking about their past. It just meant that Aziraphale was the one who had to grab their hand and hoist them back up into reality. 

Anathema was a strange one though. Not in a bad way, but she was different. Quirky, even. She was incredibly intelligent, but she never boasted about it. Her interests lay with science but also in history. She often dressed like a schoolteacher from the Victorian Era, but Aziraphale could hardly critique her fashion sense when he himself looked like he stepped out of a 1950’s rom-com. Anathema, Aziraphale had learned, was a graduate student at a university in Oxford. She didn’t have many friends, but she had always been independent, even from a young age.

The most interesting thing about Anathema, however, was the fact that she prided herself on being what they called an occultist. ( _Not_ a witch, mind you.) She claimed she could see people’s auras, tell what they were feeling, and knew all of what would happen today, tomorrow, and even three months from now with the help of a book that she called _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch_. 

She seemed to live the entirety of her life solely based on what The Book said. It was as though she was unable to stray away from it and forge her own path, create her own life. That was partially what brought her into Aziraphale’s office to begin with. From there, he realized there was a great deal more to Anathema Device than what originally met his eye, and that deep down, she was quite a troubled person. But that was who Aziraphale dealt with. Troubled people. And it was his job to help them get on the track to become the best version of themself. 

Some might call what Aziraphale Fell does boring. Some may say that he spends his days fixing people, helping them so they don’t fall entirely off the rails. Aziraphale sees it differently, though. He sees it as people coming to him for help, coming to him because they want to improve and be better. They know that what they are dealing with is something that they cannot go at alone, and they need someone to ride into battle with them. And Aziraphale has never lied when he tells a client he is deeply honored that they have chosen him to trust with part of their life. 

Although, Aziraphale has another side—a side he doesn’t like to admit he has, but a side he knows is there, because it gnaws at him continuously. Like everyone, there is a select version of himself that he shows, depending on who is around. Not that he has many people in his life who are constantly around him. The only human interaction he tends to get is with his clients and the occasional grocery store clerk. Sometimes it’s with Gabriel, but he hardly considers that human interaction. 

While Aziraphale, at times, admits that he enjoys talking to his clients not just because he has to but simply because of the people they are, he also has been finding it harder to feel as though he believes what they are saying. He never doubts for a millisecond that they are dealing with a weight that is far too heavy for them, he doubts the fact that this weight is caused by a monster under their bed. 

The brain can make people think funny things. It can create images and it can allow you to form imaginary scenarios that it uses as a coping mechanism. But Aziraphale has always seen it as his job to help find the root cause of these monsters, these _entities._ He’s never actually believed that there are truly ghosts lurking outside his bedroom at night. For lack of a better title, Aziraphale considers himself to be a skeptic. And that title is beginning to become more than just a little bit of a problem, considering that the branch of psychology he specializes in is parapsychology. 

Aziraphale knows he shouldn’t be this doubtful. After all, he was the one who opened up his own firm solely so he could research paranormal activity. But then, the small doubtful voice in his mind hadn’t yet made its appearance when the ribbon to A.Z. Fell Health & Counselling had been cut. It hadn’t so much as whispered until long after Aziraphale’s book, _A Guide to the Psychology of Paranormal Activity_ had been released. 

The doubt simply crept into his mind one night without making a grand entrance. It sat there, chewing on his thoughts and festering until one day Aziraphale couldn’t ignore it any longer. He had picked up a pen and scribbled three words onto a post-it note in his desk drawer: _are ghosts real?_

Granted, Aziraphale knows that parapsychology delves far further than simply ghosts and demons. There is also telekinesis, precognition, psychometry—the list goes on. But something about ghosts and life after death, if there is such a thing, has always enraptured Aziraphale. He just wished he wasn’t feeling so much doubt as of late. 

“No.” Anathema’s voice broke the silence, snapping Aziraphale out of his thoughts and plunging him back into the real world. “No, it’s not her.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, leaning forward and resting his elbow on his knee. “I will tell you that what you are talking about is very interesting,” he says, and he means it. 

Anathema raised an eyebrow. “It is?”

“Truly, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Sometimes grief does funny things to our minds. Makes us see things that aren’t really there, and yet it is better than never seeing them at all. This woman in your house perhaps is a manifestation of your grief and—”

“But it isn’t,” Anathema said softly but seriously. “I know it isn’t. She was my mother. I know what she looked like. And I know if it is her or not.” Aziraphale didn’t reply. “But I don't know how to get rid of her. I don’t know who this person is. She is a stranger and I want her gone.”

“And I will do everything I can to help you make sure she leaves. You needn’t fight this alone, Anathema.”

“If you were there, you would understand, you would see,” said Anathema, in a voice that isn’t necessarily accusatory but not casual, either. “You could see. Someone could see what is happening. What I am feeling. I’m tired of just explaining it over and over again. I want people to experience it and to believe me.”

“I believe you, Anathema,” Aziraphale had told her, hoping he sounded as genuinely honest as he felt. He was partial to Anathema—he saw a lot of himself in her, and he appreciated her wits and grounded attitude towards life. She trusted him and if he was being completely honest with himself, he trusted her. He didn’t consider her as much a patient than a friend. 

“I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale began before he could stop himself, “I am working on my second book. A follow up to my previous one.”

Anathema nods slowly. “Congratulations,” she said, looking unsure of where this conversation was going. 

“The manuscript is over there,” Aziraphale continued, nodding his head over to his desk. “I ah—I’m using some of my clients experiences with the paranormal world. With their permission of course.” 

On Aziraphale’s desk was a white binder with a thick stack of paper and loose notes compiled inside of it. If one were to look closely, they would notice that much of what is inside is a number of transcribed interviews between Aziraphale and his clients. This was Gabriel’s idea. 

“No one wants to read another text book, Aziraphale,” Gabriel had said. “People want stories. They want anecdotes. _Real_ , relatable things. No one wants to feel like they’re back in college writing a book report. Give them a slice of reality. Give _yourself_ a slice of reality.”

Aziraphale had supposed Gabriel was right. While he himself was a man of the sciences and cared about facts more than entertainment, Gabriel was always doing his very best to adapt to the changing times. He, like so many other people in the world, seemed to care more about the entertainment and pleasure that people got off others' work rather than the accuracy and quality of it. It annoyed Aziraphale to no end, along with Gabriel’s obnoxious, boisterous laugh. But at least Gabriel’s comment had given Aziraphale an incentive: get his book published, break the contract he had with Archer Publishers, take his cut of the profit and get out of London. 

Get out of London. That was the main one. 

Aziraphale loved the city, but he wanted peace. He wanted to sleep and not hear cars honking or drunken university students outside his window coming home from the pub. He wanted to walk and actually get to appreciate his surroundings without worrying about whether someone was going to bump into him from behind. The place was simply too crowded and chaotic for him and he wanted to be rid of it. The countryside was where he was going and he was damned if he wasn’t going to get there in the next year. 

“And I was wondering, since you want someone in your corner,” Aziraphale said, “if you would trust me to come to your home and do a study. Entirely for research, of course. I’d be there for a week at most. I know many other people in my field who have done the same thing for their friends and clients and it seems to help. I have to have the manuscript in quite soon, but I am sure I could find room for your story.”

Anathema opened her mouth to answer and shot a glance at the manuscript on the desk. “Well, my boyfriend, Newt is coming back from a conference in Sunderland this Wednesday. He won’t mind if I stay with him for a little bit. That is, if you don’t mind staying in a haunted cottage,” she then added with a slight chuckle. 

Aziraphale smiled slightly. He handed her a blank sticky-note and his pen. “If you could just write the address here.”

“Are you sure this is professional?” said Anathema as she scrawled down the house number and street in her neat, loopy handwriting. 

“Entirely. But I also owe it to you. You’re a good person, Anathema, and I want to help you.” 

“Oh, well, that’s—that’s nice,” she said in reply. Aziraphale took the sticky note and stuck it on the binder holding his manuscript. 

“You’ll be alright if I’m not there when you arrive, right? I have to look after a couple of kids that morning.” Anathema asked. 

“I think I should be able to manage,” Aziraphale replied, touched at her concern. 

“Thank you for doing this, Mr. Fell.”

“You’ve known me for far too long to still be calling me by my surname. Aziraphale is fine, dear.”

“See you next time, then?"

“Yes. Michael at reception should help you get scheduled. Have a good afternoon,” Aziraphale said, showing her to the door and holding it open for her. 

Anathema still looked unsure even as she stepped out of the office. Aziraphale noticed the look in her eyes and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“If you are not comfortable with this, Anathema, please do let me know. This is on your terms, not mine.”

“I uh—it will be fine,” she said in response. “Just...be careful.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I am a naturally careful person, but I will take extra caution. I’ll see you next week.”

And so that is how, after an appointment with a long time client, a night spent at home packing a bag, an hour long car journey and a mile’s walk through the village of Tadfield, Aziraphale finds himself standing attentively on the doorstep of Jasmine cottage. 

He peers in through the frosted glass window and can see into the kitchen, dark but lived in. It looks nice enough. Aziraphale fumbles around in the outside pocket of his bag, searching for the house key that Anathema gave him. 

House key. 

“ _Damn_ ,” he curses aloud. He sets the bag down on the stonework and crouches down, unzipping it. “Please be in here, please be in here, please be in here,” he mutters. Aziraphale feels his cheeks growing hot with concern. “No, no, no, this is not—God, I am _so_ stupid!” he exclaims, slapping his palm on his forehead. He can feel a frown begin to form on his face as it dawns on him where the house key is. 

“The kitchen table. Of course. Of bloody course,” Aziraphale mumbles, furious with himself. He straightens up and adjusts his coat. Hoping no passerby saw his minor loss of composure, he steps closer to the kitchen window and cupps his hands around his eyes. A light appears to be on in the hallway. Perhaps someone was home. Aziraphale couldn’t guess why that would be—Anathema told him she wouldn’t be around to welcome him—but it also gave him a glimmer of hope. He tapped lightly on the window before moving towards the front door. 

The door swings open before Aziraphale has time to knock. He stands on the front step for a moment more, hand raised as though he were going to rap his knuckles on air. He furrows his brow at the man standing before him. Aziraphale’s brain stutters. He isn’t entirely sure who he was expecting to see, but it most definitely was not who was standing in front of him. 

“I’m—I’m terribly sorry, but who are you?” he asks with a frown.

“I could ask you the same question,” the man replies, folding his arms across his chest. 

“I asked you first,” Aziraphale remarks. 

Aziraphale takes the fellow in. He’s tall, all limbs and dressed from head to toe in an outfit that looks like a 1990’s rockstar look gone wrong. He is wearing a pair of obviously expensive sunglasses and his hair looks like red fire in the afternoon sunlight. The man leans up against the doorframe and crosses his ankles. 

“The name’s Crowley,” he says. “Anthony Crowley, that is.” He extends his hand, but Aziraphale is too busy staring at his sharp cheekbones and trousers that look entirely too tight to fit over even the skinniest of legs. 

Crowley drops his hand and raises an eyebrow. “And you are?” 

“Oh—I’m Aziraphale.” 

“Right. Mind if I ask you what you’re doing here? You’ve been standing on the steps for the last fifteen minutes looking rather distressed,” Crowley says.

“Ah, yes, well—”

“—and I thought to myself ‘maybe I should go out and ask him what’s the trouble? But then it got rather funny watching you look so keyed up, until it actually became quite pitiful.”

“Yes, but if you would let me explain,” Aziraphale begins exasperatedly. He’s not sure what to make of Anthony Crowley, but his first impressions of the man aren’t what one would exactly call pleasant. “I am here for work.” 

Crowley’s lip curls. “Hm. Well, I hate to break it to you, but I think you’ve got the wrong address,” he says in his snake-like drawl. 

“Er, no, I’m quite sure this is the _right_ address,” Aziraphale retorts. He reaches inside his coat’s breast pocket and unfolds a wrinkled note. “Ah, Number 10, Jasmine Cottage, Tadfield, Oxfordshire. This _does_ appear to be Number 10, Jasmine Cottage.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Yeah,” he elongates the word and holds up a finger. “But I was told that this place was mine for the next week. Hastur, you dirty, _dirty_ liar,” he growls under his breath. 

Aziraphale raised a confused eyebrow. “I’m sorry, who?” 

“An old friend. Don’t worry about it,” Crowley says. “He told me that I had the place to myself this week.” 

“See, but I was told the very same ” Aziraphale says, growing more confused—and frankly more anxious—by the second. He didn’t like it when his schedule was thrown off course. That threw _him_ off course, and he would not stand for being thrown off course, not when he had a book to be written. “Except I was told this by a client of mine. Anathema Device.”

“So was _I_. Or, so was Hastur. He and this Anathema woman are connected somehow,” Crowley explains with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Hastur told me that she was going to be away this week.” 

“But you didn’t hear this directly from Miss Device herself?” Aziraphale asks, worried. 

“Not directly, I wouldn’t say, no,” Crowley says. He is looking worryingly clueless. 

“So she hasn’t talked to you?” Aziraphale says, incredulous. 

“No. Was she supposed to?”

“This is her _house!”_ Aziraphale cries. He watches as the gravity of being in a total stranger’s house for the last couple of hours hits Crowley. The fiery-haired man looks as though he has been slapped across the face. 

“Hang on, I have to—call...someone,” Crowley says and speeds off down the front hall. Aziraphale gawks at him. He doesn’t necessarily think the man is a burglar, despite wearing all black. No, he doesn’t seem smart enough to figure out how to rob a house. Granted, no one who does things like that really is, but Aziraphale brushes that point aside. 

“Hastur, you can’t just let me move into random people’s houses!” Aziraphale hears Crowley’s voice yell from a distance. “No! I don’t care if you went to uni with her, _I_ don’t know her, and now there’s some posh twat outside claiming he’s supposed to be here.” 

Aziraphale scoffs at Crowley’s last remark, far more offended than he knows he should be. Posh twat. There was not a remark that could have been farther from the truth than that. Aziraphale wasn’t posh, he was intelligent. And he took pride in his work. There was a distinct difference between stuffy and posh and educated and proud of it. 

Crowley’s voice grows quieter but more distressed until finally he returns a moment later, face ashen and looking rather shell shocked, mobile phone in hand. “You’re here for work, you said?”

“That is correct,” Aziraphale says with suspicion.

Crowley pauses for a moment, looking dumbfounded. He stares at Aziraphale, mouth hanging open as he realizes that he might have just been wrong this whole time. 

“ _Crowley? Crowley. Stop joking around and answer me!_ ” a voice growls on the other end of the phone. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll call you back, give me a minute!” Crowley yells into the phone before aggressively pressing the End Call button. 

“Here for work. Yeah, well, that’s a shame. Try a hostel or something,” he says. Aziraphale gapes at him and looks for any sign that this is surely some cruel, practical joke. He is _supposed_ to be here. Crowley isn’t. Anathema probably doesn’t know Crowley even exists. Yes, this is all just some nasty prank. He waits for Crowley to break into a grin and for the cameramen to come out of their hiding spots, but Crowley simply stares back at him, dead serious. Aziraphale shakes his head. This really cannot be happening. 

“I’m _sorry?_ ” Aziraphale says incredulously. “I’m here for my _job_ . I have a _deadline._ And I don’t have time for this. I’m not going to a hostel. Let me in, now...please.” 

Crowley isn’t fazed. “Look, I know the woman who runs the one downtown. Madame Tracy. Tell her I sent you. Now, if you don’t mind, I have business to attend to.” Crowley tries to shut the door but Aziraphale jams his foot in it before it can close fully. 

“No, no, I am _quite_ sure that I am meant to be here. I was not told of anyone else who would be joining me. So if _you_ don’t mind”— he kicks the door back open, throwing Crowley off his balance slightly— “I have business to attend to.” Aziraphale smiles smugly, feeling very proud of himself. He knows he probably should not be doing this—in fact, there is a small part of him that is begging him to stop, to call Anathema and explain the situation to her and figure things out rationally. But the temptation is too strong and Aziraphale wants to put Anthony Crowley in his place. A part of him wants to catch him off guard again and see the stupid look on his face when he does. 

Crowley’s eyes narrow. “Hey,” he says, perhaps just a bit too loudly, “you can’t just barge in here like this! It may not be my house but it’s not your place, either!” 

Aziraphale doesn’t reply. Instead, he holds his head high, trying to hide another satisfied grin that threatens to take over his face. He steps into the kitchen of the house and sets his bag down on one of the barstools. _Quite a nice place you’ve got here_ , he thinks, and it’s true. The entire cottage looks like it stepped out of an old-English fairytale with a bit of a modern twist—although, that may just be because of all of Crowley’s clutter that is scattered about. There are a number of high-tech laptops and monitors as well as something that takes the temperature of the rooms. There are also a couple of cameras situated on the corners of the walls, and Aziraphale begins to feel uneasy upon laying eyes on them. He would definitely not be taking lightly to the fact that the person behind the cameras would be watching his every move. And the fact that the person keeping an eye on him was most likely Crowley didn’t make him feel any better. But no matter. He would take care of it. The place would be his soon enough and he could finally work on his book without any further disruptions. Aziraphale turns around and puts his hands on his hips. 

“Yes, this will do nicely,” he murmurs aloud. 

“Uh, no, no it won’t, it won’t do nicely,” says Crowley, stumbling into the kitchen behind him. “Did your mother ever tell you it’s rude to just walk into a stranger’s house? For all you know, I might be Britain’s most wanted serial killer.”

“Perhaps,” says Aziraphale, “but based on the amount of effort you appear to have been putting into doing your hair every day, I’d say I’m safe.” 

“Very flattering,” Crowley fires back, voice laced with sarcasm. “I work hard on my hair, I’ll have you know,” he says. 

“I’m not sure if you intended for that to come as a surprise to me or not,” Aziraphale says, casting Crowley away and wandering down the hall. He is feeling quite venomous today, for a lot of unknown reasons, but a part of him is enjoying the sudden surge of snark in his attitude. Normally he wouldn’t say such things to someone, but Aziraphale has the feeling Crowley has some tricks up his sleeve, so he doesn’t mind as much. 

“I’m not sure what you’re looking for down there. It’s just a bedroom and bathroom,” Crowley calls. “And speaking of bedrooms, I should warn you that there’s only one guest room. That is, if you’re planning on staying.”

Aziraphale pokes his head around the hallway and stares at Crowley. “I’ll sleep on the couch if I have to.”

“Have fun with that one,” Crowley teases. He looks oddly amused by Aziraphale’s exploration and is wearing a wide smirk. 

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Aziraphale snaps, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure Anathema will call any moment now and you will be moved to that hostel down the road.”

“Alright, then.” 

As if on cue, the phone on the wall rings loudly. Crowley jumps at the noise but Aziraphale has already raced to pick it up off the receiver. 

“Hello?” he says with hope.

“Aziraphale? Oh, good, you made it,” comes Anathema’s voice. 

“Yes, I did, thank you. I hope you’re well,” Aziraphale says, eyeing Crowley. _How do I tell her?_ he thinks as he looks at him. _Hello Anathema, I hope you’re well. It’s really quite good that you called, because there is a random man inside your house and he’s put up cameras and he won’t leave._

“I forgot to tell you at our session last Wednesday, and it didn’t cross my mind until now, but a classmate of mine from university is friends with a guy named Anthony Crowley. He’s a YouTuber. Films paranormal videos or something like that,”

Aziraphale is quite glad that he has the counter to lean on for support, for if it weren’t there, he surely would’ve keeled over at Anathema’s revelation. 

“I uh—he is a what? A YouTuber, you said?” Aziraphale looks over his shoulder to Crowley, who stares back at him and gives a mockingly innocent wave. Aziraphale doesn’t want to be mad at Anathema, and truthfully, he isn’t. He’s just horribly shocked. 

“I think so. I don’t know. Hastur has a channel and apparently, they used to collaborate on videos together. He said he got wind of Crowley trying to find a location to film a vlog and I mentioned that I thought my house was haunted. I left it to him to get in touch.”

Aziraphale blinks and shakes his head as though trying to wake up from a dream. How is it that he is the only one who seems to find this absolutely asinine?

“I see,” Aziraphale says after a moment, struggling to keep his voice level.

“I hope it’s not a problem. It’s all so last minute, and this is all my fault, I’m very sorry. I hope you can understand,” Anathema says. “We can always figure something out if you need it.” 

Aziraphale swallows thickly and shakes his head even though he knows she can’t see him. “No. It’s not a problem— not a problem at all. We can share. It will be fine. Thank you again for letting me stay.”

“Oh,” Anathema says, sounding a bit surprised. “I mean I am sure he is a nice enough guy. Maybe you can even be in one of his videos,” she says brightly. 

“Yeah,” Aziraphale says weakly. “Maybe.” 

“Let me know how your writing goes,” she says. “And please call me if you need anything.”

“Of course. Thank—thank you,” Aziraphale manages to say before hastily hanging up the phone before Anathema has time to reply. 

Crowley is staring at Aziraphale when he turns around. “I’m judging by the look on your face that the person on the phone was exactly who I think it was.”

“Don’t you start,” Aziraphale moans, hurrying past Crowley and outside to where his bag is sitting on the front step. 

“You alright?” Crowley asks, sounding genuinely concerned, but Aziraphale feels insulted. 

“I’m sorry, but why do I appear to be the only one who finds this entire situation far too chaotic?!” he shouts, blood boiling. 

“Sometimes life is spontaneous,” Crowley says, trying to sound at least a little bit sincere. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know you were going to be here either.”

“No, clearly you didn’t,” Aziraphale snaps. He can feel Crowley deflate a little behind him, but he doesn’t stop. 

“Need help bringing your stuff in?” Crowley offers. Aziraphale notices the gesture and nods slowly. 

“Sure. You take this one, I’ll take that one.”

They move the luggage into the lounge. 

“Look,” Crowley says after a moment. “I’m not any more excited about this than you are.”

Aziraphale shoots him a warning look, but he ignores it.

“But can we at least agree to stay out of each other’s hair? At least for now. You work on...whatever it is you’re working on and I film my video, yeah? It’s just a week. We can manage.” 

Aziraphale looks at him. He hates to admit it, but Crowley has a point. “Fine,” Aziraphale agrees. “But I have a manuscript to write and a deadline to finish it by, so please don’t disturb me.”

“You’re a writer?” Crowley asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I am. A psychiatrist as well.” 

“Mind if I ask you what you’re doing in a supposedly haunted cottage?” Crowley questions, but this time he sounds genuinely interested, like he’s making a true effort to be amicable. 

“Anathema is one of my clients. I’m here for work purposes. And I’m afraid that is all I can tell you,” Aziraphale says. Being a psychiatrist comes with a vow of confidentiality. What is said in his office stays in his office, and he probably shouldn’t have even given Anathema’s name. It’s too late now, and even though Crowley may be obnoxious, he doesn’t seem incredibly untrustworthy. 

“Ah, yeah, confidential stuff and all that,” Crowley says with a nod. 

“And all that,” Aziraphale murmurs. He grabs his bag and moves into the kitchen, plugging his laptop into the outlet by the dining table. He watches as the computer boots up, lost in thought. This is going to be a long week. 

* * *

_I,_ Anthony Crowley thinks, _do not get nearly enough credit for the amount of work I put into my videos. Hell, I never even_ wanted _to be a YouTuber. It just kind of happened._

It was all Hastur’s fault really. And Ligur. Uni always gave you some quirky friends, but Hastur and Ligur had been a different breed. They had an online presence, and they had a wide viewing audience, but their shared channel really didn’t have a point to it. Sure, it made people laugh, but that could hardly be considered a point. Granted, the same could be said for the things Crowley posts, but he doesn’t like to dwell on that. He puts _time_ and _effort_ into his work and yet the bloody YouTube algorithm is so screwed up that his work is constantly lost in a stream of Hastur and Ligur’s videos. 

Or, _was_. 

Things changed, and Crowley, who had never been a spontaneous person, became rash and daring just to get out of Hastur and Ligur’s grasp. But had never intended to become YouTube famous. That had to be the question he always dodged when participating in Instagram Q+A stories, because the truth is, he had no idea how he had gotten to where he is. It all began with one video of him managing to get himself locked into Leeds Castle for 24 hours (and miraculously not being arrested when he posted it), but he simply remembers going to bed one night and waking up in the morning to 3.1 million views. 

It all went downhill from there. 

Soon, he was posting every other day, the same type of random vlogs Hastur and Ligur made, but this time with insane (and frankly dangerous) challenges and getting millions of views. Crowley doesn’t know how he ever got the YouTube Creators Award. He really doesn’t deserve it.

But, he supposes that as long as he can provide his four million subscribers with regular entertainment, he’s doing alright. That means he’s doing his job. He posts what he wants to see, and while it might not be what a normal person calls watch-worthy content, it seems to satisfy enough people to earn him money on the side of his day job at a small paranormal investigation firm in Mayfair. 

In fact, it was his boss, Beelzebub Prince, that suggested he should change his YouTube niche since he was working for a company involving ghost catching. Crowley did it partially because he really couldn’t turn down a suggestion from his boss and partially because...well, who doesn’t love a good ghost hunt? 

Crowley could be as reckless and chaotic as he pleased in his videos _and_ include ghosts in them as well. He wouldn’t necessarily call himself an internet legend, and he’s not always proud of what he does, but he provides people entertainment. But lately he feels his efforts have been wasted. He feels burnt out. No inspiration, no motivation, no real reason to create. Crowley had been tagged in numerous tweets asking when his next video was going to be posted, but he ignored them. He had nothing to create. 

Or, nothing until Hastur told him about the opportunity to film a week-long vlog in an apparently haunted house. 

That had been an interesting exchange, especially considering Crowley had only just cut ties with Hastur. (It had all been pure jealousy really, on Hastur and Ligur’s part. They simply weren’t daring enough with their videos and it came back to bite them when Crowley won his award. It wasn’t his fault that he got the ideas before they did.) 

Hastur hadn’t exactly been a nice person to speak with, but he definitely knew where Crowley’s expertise lay. At first, Crowley thought Hastur was joking with him, pulling some sort of ridiculous prank. 

“Was talking to one of my classmates today. Anathema. Her house is haunted, she says. You like things like that,” Hastur had said in his slimy, drawling accent. 

“What d’you want, Hastur?” Crowley replied tiredly. 

“Nothing. Just thought it might be an opportunity for you.”

“Uh-huh,” Crowley said flatly. “So you’re calling me, after we ended it, Christ knows why, because I thought I made it pretty bloody clear that I _do not want to talk to you,_ and you’re giving me video ideas? That’s definitely not nothing. What do you want?” 

“Look, Anathema is kind of smart, but she’s also kind of insane, and I’m frankly kind of scared of her,” Hastur said. “Scratch that, I’m very, very afraid. She’s a witch, she says.”

“Ha-ha, yep,” Crowley said, not buying into any of it. 

“We’re partners for an assignment and she keeps going on about the place and I told her about your channel.”

Crowley furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“Why not?”

“So what does she want?”

“Well, she apparently needs someone to _investigate_ it for her. Your name came up, like I keep saying.”

Crowley shook his head. “Right. And when does she want this _investigation_ done?”

“Sometime within the next week, it seems,” Hastur replied. 

“I’ll think about it. But if I find out that this is some trick, you better watch your back, Hastur.”

“Is that a threat?” Hastur said in a tone that made it seem as though he thought Crowley was bluffing. 

“Might be. Are you feeling brave?” Crowley replied, not knowing what he would actually do if Hastur was really pulling a joke on him. He contemplated hunting down Hastur and committing arson for a lot longer than was probably considered healthy, but then decided against it. 

“Braver than you sound,” Hastur retorted. “You have my word. This isn’t a drill. She wants some proof that her place is haunted, and that’s your specialty, isn’t it?” He sounded bitter, as though he was thinking of how _he_ was more deserving of Crowley’s newfound fame than Crowley was. 

“What’s the address?” Crowley asked, opening his laptop to a fresh word document. 

“Number 10, Jasmine Cottage, Tadfield, Oxfordshire.” Hastur replied, and Crowley hung up before he could say anything more. 

This had to have been a very bad idea, but then again, anything Crowley put on his channel was full of bad ideas, things that people most definitely should not try at home. But that just meant that Crowley was most definitely going to Tadfield, and he was most definitely going to catch a ghost. 

_I really should be thanking Hastur,_ Crowley thinks to himself as he sets up his filming equipment. _I don’t know the Anathema lady, but assuming what Hastur is saying is correct, she might have just gotten me my biggest video yet._

He sets up some smaller cameras on the walls—he’ll take them down of course, once he leaves, but they always prove to be useful when searching for a ghost. The house was nice, especially considering only one person seemed to live here. A small tapping noise came from the window. Crowley jumped slightly at the noise and looked towards the source. 

“What the hell?” he mumbles. He peers outside, partially in surprise and partially in amusement at the sight of a man, dressed in a beige and tartan suit, looking awfully put out. Crowley assumes he must have just got the wrong address; he’ll be gone in a minute. 

But the guy remains on the doorstep, looking more and more distressed.

Crowley smirks at him and contemplates just ignoring him (he was his own work to do), but it’s getting kind of pitiful watching him. He walks over to the door and opens it, startling the man. They stare at each other for a minute before he speaks. 

“I’m terribly sorry, but who are you?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Crowley remarks. 

“I asked you first,” the man points out. 

“The name’s Crowley,” Crowley says. “Anthony Crowley, that is. And you are?” 

The other man is quiet for a long moment before startling back into reality and saying, “Oh—I’m Aziraphale.”

 _That’s not a name you hear every day,_ Crowley thinks. He is an interesting looking man, with white-blonde hair and the bluest eyes Crowley has ever seen. He’s good looking, in a sort of odd, unconventional way, but his personality, Crowley decides, doesn’t impress him in the least. He seems like a know-it-all, another one of those prideful, stuffy snobs who graduated at the top of their class at Cambridge and flaunted it in casual conversation. 

What does take Crowley by surprise is his snark. And his stubbornness. Aziraphale had a bite to him, and Crowley couldn’t decide if he found it admirable or really fucking annoying. He figures it is probably a combination of both. 

It’s only when Aziraphale jams it into Crowley’s mind that he is in a total stranger’s house does the gravity of his situation begin to actually set in. He’s never met Anathema, and he doesn’t know why this hasn’t crossed his mind before—any other person would’ve thought about it long and hard before doing something like this, and they probably would’ve even gotten in touch with Anathema herself. But evidently not him. No, he’s just impulsive to a fault and truthfully wanted an excuse to get some revenge on Hastur for no reason at all. 

He pulls out his mobile and rushes off down the front hall and into the lounge. 

“Hastur, what the hell,” he growls into the phone. 

“Good afternoon to you too, Crowley.”

“What. The. Hell. Hastur, you can’t just let me move into random people’s houses!”

“But she’s not a random person,” Hastur replies. “She is a mutual friend.”

Crowley flinches at the word friend. He doesn’t know what term he would use to call Hastur, but 'friend' is not the first word to come to mind. 

“No! I don’t care if you went to uni with her, _I_ don’t know her, and now there’s some posh twat outside claiming he’s supposed to be here.” 

“What?”

“I have no idea. He says his name is Aziraphale.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley repeats, “but he won’t leave.” 

Hastur is quiet for a long moment, and Crowley feels anger bubble up inside him. He lowers his voice, hoping to sound menacing and serious. “I told you if this was a trick, I would find you.” 

“I am a man of my word, Crowley,” Hastur snarls back. 

Crowley laughs bitterly at that. “No, you’re not.” He saunters from the lounge and back to the front door where Aziraphale stands, looking more put off than ever. 

“You’re here for work you said?” Crowley asks. 

“That’s correct,” Aziraphale replies icily. 

Crowley looks at him for a long time, so long that he forgets Hastur is on the phone with him.

“Crowley? Crowley. Stop joking around and answer me!” Hastur's voice yells. Crowley spits out some sort of response and hangs up. Yeah, this isn’t going to work. Crowley directs Aziraphale to a hostel down the street—he knows the woman who owns the place, a nice but quirky lady, and Aziraphale looks like he’d get along well with her. That is, until Aziraphale flies past him and into the house. 

Crowley feels a gust of air followed by the other man's scent sweep in his wake and he is left feeling sort of dizzy. He tries to stop him but deep down he is actually quite impressed by Aziraphale’s obdurateness. It’s only when Aziraphale begins to look like he might snap at any minute after the phone call with Anathema does Crowley takes the moment to assess what is actually going on. All he knows is that a man named Aziraphale is standing in the middle of Jasmine cottage, insulting his hair and then hurrying back outside, looking ready to scream. Crowley watches him. 

Aziraphale is in his right to feel this way, obviously, he didn’t know Crowley was going to be here either, and he must have come a long way. He doesn’t look like the traveling type, too. Crowley begins to feel something more than pity, something more like genuine remorse for being so short with him—he is sure he’s a nice enough man underneath all of that tartan. 

“You alright?” Crowley asks, meaning his words. 

“I’m sorry, but why do I appear to be the only one who finds this entire situation far too chaotic?!” Aziraphale exclaims, throwing his hands up. 

Crowley thinks of a response. “Sometimes life is spontaneous. If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know you were going to be here either.”

“No, clearly you didn’t,” Aziraphale says. The coolness of his tone caused Crowley to raise an annoyed eyebrow; maybe trying to be genuinely kind wasn’t the solution after all. Whatever. There’s nothing he can do about it, because Aziraphale clearly is not going anywhere. 

“Need help bringing your stuff in?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale stares at him for a minute, as if deciding if he should trust Crowley with the task. “Sure. You take this one, I’ll take that one.”

* * *

It’s nightfall by the time Aziraphale even thinks about speaking to Crowley again. The man has clearly been trying to make an effort to be congenial, but Aziraphale doesn’t know if he’s being set up for a trick or not. He peers at him from over his reading glasses. Crowley’s on the couch, in what looks like a very uncomfortable position reading a tabloid magazine. 

“Anything good?” Aziraphale asks in a low voice, partially hoping Crowley doesn’t hear him. 

“Taylor Swift has another album,” Crowley replies, flicking through the pages. 

“Hm,” Aziraphale hums, turning his attention back to his computer. 

“Didn’t think you’d know how to use one of those,” Crowley mumbles. 

Aziraphale narrows his eyebrows. “What, you think I just write my manuscript by hand?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I’m not as ancient as I look,” Aziraphale says. 

“That’s nice,” Crowley replies and turns the page of the magazine. Aziraphale rolls his eyes and focuses back on the sentence in front of him. 

_Miss Device brought it to my attention that her quaint cottage in the Oxfordshire village where she currently resides is, based on what she has told me, haunted._

Aziraphale rubs a hand across his face and sighs. There’s nothing else to add on as of yet, and there is nothing he can do about it until something is sighted but he can’t just wait around for a ghost to appear. He has to have this bloody book written, and he has to have it done soon. And Gabriel has built himself up a reputation for being notoriously irate when someone misses a deadline. It’s happened to Aziraphale once before, and he vowed to never let it happen again, not just because it might cost him his job, but also because he doesn’t ever want to face his boss’s wrath ever again. 

“You look stressed,” Crowley comments from the sofa. 

“Oh, do I?” Aziraphale replies with a bit of venom. Crowley ignores the response but looks at Aziraphale from behind his dark sunglasses. For a moment, Aziraphale wonders why he still has them on— it’s nearing midnight. How is he even reading the words in front of him?

“Go to bed. You look like you’re five seconds from falling over.” 

Aziraphale takes off his glasses and folds them by his laptop. “Right. What’s the deal with the bedroom?” 

Crowley tosses the magazine aside and crosses his legs. “There’s an office upstairs that I can move to if you want the bedroom,” he says. Aziraphale raises his eyebrow, touched at how Crowley seems willing to be flexible to accommodate for Aziraphale. 

He stands and stretches his back before powering off his laptop and heading towards the stairs. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

The bed is neatly made and looks to have been refreshed before Anathema left. Aziraphale had seen people in those paranormal investigation shows on TV do the same thing he is doing—except they would follow every action of their client to put themselves in the exact position and situation that they were in to be able to make the experience more “authentic”. Aziraphale had always thought that was a little bit stupid, but then again, here he was, doing basically the same thing. 

By the time he was ready for bed, the house outside the door was quiet and dark. Crowley must have retreated to his own space as well. It was the first time all day he finally had the chance to clear his thoughts and relax. But sleep did not come. In fact, it seemed to evade him, sneaking up on him and then disappearing every time he felt himself drift off until Aziraphale suddenly felt wide awake. He flipped onto his side, restless. Outside, the moon shone brightly into the backyard. Aziraphale lifted his head and looked out the window. The place seemed to be far larger than it had appeared during the afternoon. Much quieter, as well. Eerily quiet, almost to the point of suspicion. Aziraphale doesn’t like it. 

Aziraphale gets out of bed and tip-toes to the door, wrapping himself in his dressing gown and creeping downstairs. He sits down on the sofa and sighs deeply. The little cottage seems to have grown in size. He can hardly see down the hallway through the darkness. The place is silent, apart from the ticking of the clock in the front hall and the small drops of water falling from the sink faucet in a slow and steady rhythm. He is entirely alone, and the house is making weird noises. Wonderful. 

_This is how all horror movies begin_ , Aziraphale thinks sarcastically. He tries to ignore the uneasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach but the discomfort slowly turns to dread as a soft creak sounds from behind him, followed by what sounds like a series of footsteps. Aziraphale feels the hair on his neck stand up as he turns to find nothing there, and the room has suddenly gone very cold. His first thought is that Crowley is pulling a joke on him, but he can’t find a silhouette hiding in the darkness.

The dripping water seems to grow louder and louder and Aziraphale eyes it warily. The rhythm picks up speed until a thin stream of water is spraying from the faucet. Aziraphale gasps, walking slowly towards it until abruptly, it stops. He runs his fingers along the hot and cold water knobs, waiting prudently for something to happen again. It makes him feel far more rattled when nothing happens but he hears what sounds like a door closing down the hall. 

“Crowley, this is not funny,” he huffs, backing away from the sink and towards the stairwell. _I’ll ask him about this in the morning_ , Aziraphale thinks, retreating back up to his room and shutting the door. He doesn’t hear another noise for the rest of the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed it. I'm looking forward to writing future chapters, as this one was fun to write but also more necessary for setting up the plot. The story should start climbing during the next chapter...
> 
> Please let me know what you thought in the comments and kudos below! I'm also on tumblr as @ineffable-yikes and on Twitter as @elxetera — I'd love to say hi to you all!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley begin their investigation on Jasmine Cottage by finding out more information on Agnes Nutter, the ghost who supposedly haunts it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! Here is the much anticipated Chapter Two (a week late). Thank you for all of the WONDERFUL feedback I've gotten on this fic, I've read and re-read all of your comments and it's true when I say that they keep me going and are part of the reason I was able to write this next chapter. I did my best to edit this on my own, and I've had another person look over it, but if there are any spelling/grammar issues...you didn't see them ;) 
> 
> Also, I'm adding the fact that I changed my AO3 username!! I was formerly sequinsapphic but I'm now masqueraderevelers! 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you like this chapter!

“So,” Aziraphale asks through a bite of waffle, “did you have a nice midnight stroll last night?” 

Crowley peers at him from over the top of his mobile phone. “What?” 

“Please, just this once, don’t play clueless with me,” Aziraphale says. 

“No, I seriously don’t have any idea what you are talking about,” Crowley replies. 

“I think you do. Someone was walking around last night,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley stares at him for a long moment. “Wasn’t me.” 

“Well, it can’t have been anyone else. And also, I think the sink faucet over there has a leakage.” 

“Oh?” 

“It started spraying water everywhere.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow over his ridiculous sunglasses that he never seems to take off. He sets his phone aside and spears a piece of waffle with his fork. “Tell Anathema about it, then.” 

“That’s not my point,” Aziraphale says, incredibly serious. “My point is that someone was out here, last night, and doing all sorts of odd things.” 

“Well, I was in my room all night. I hope that is a sufficient enough alibi for you,” Crowley says, turning his attention back to the candy crush game on his phone. 

“Not really,” Aziraphale says under his breath. Crowley doesn’t hear him. “I was thinking of walking around town today,” he then says. “Have you ever been here before?” 

“Nope,” Crowley replies, popping the ‘p’ on the word. 

“Oh, please, the amount of information you’re giving me is truly so overwhelming, slow down a bit,” Aziraphale says, voice dripping with sarcasm. He finishes his breakfast and piles his dishes on the countertop. 

“Really?” says Crowley, watching him. “You seem like the type who would wash up immediately.” 

“Sometimes things aren’t as they seem,” Aziraphale says, raising an unamused eyebrow. He walks over to his laptop and opens it, ready to begin working until it warms up a little bit outside. He presses the power button, but the screen doesn’t blink to life. Aziraphale furrows his brow. The computer is still plugged in, he was sure he plugged it in before he went to bed last night. It hadn’t moved it’s place either. No one seemed to have touched it. 

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, “did you unplug my computer last night?” 

Crowley, still playing that bloody mobile game, looks up. “No. Are there any other crimes I’ve committed today, your honor?” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Well, my computer is dead.” 

“Then plug it in. I don’t see the problem.” 

“It _is_ plugged in, Crowley.” 

“Then let it charge and come back to it later. I can’t help you, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop blaming me for your problems,” Crowley grumbles. 

Aziraphale supposes he has a point. He’s still suspicious of him after last night, but sometimes technology is tetchy. But he doesn’t have time for technological setbacks. The manuscript has to be in soon and he can’t waste another second. Aziraphale presses the power button again, but the screen remains dark. 

“Odd,” he mumbles. 

“How about this,” Crowley says, picking up on his frustration. “You take a break from your work—” 

“No, I can’t—” 

“Let me finish, _please_ ,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale lifts his chin defiantly but stays quiet nonetheless. 

“Let’s go out together,” says Crowley. 

Aziraphale feels his eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. “What?” 

“You know, walk around town, see the sights. I’ve got nothing else to do.” 

“I’m sorry, you said _together?_ I mean, I’m flattered, truly, but—”

“Hang on, what?” 

“Sorry?” 

“What did you think I meant when I said ‘go out together’?” Crowley says. 

“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” Aziraphale replies quickly. 

Crowley looks doubtful. “Alright, then. I’ll just go...brush my teeth or...something.” He walks upstairs, glancing at Aziraphale over his shoulder as he goes.

Aziraphale wants to kick himself. It’s not a _date_ , he doesn’t even know what part of his mind made him think otherwise. Crowley does seem like the dating type, but they would never work together. They’re total opposites, in both looks and demeanors. And this was only for a week. You can hardly know anything about anyone when you’ve been around them for just a week. 

Aziraphale goes upstairs and towards the bathroom. Crowley has been in there for a long while, surely he has to be done by now. He knocks lightly on the door and gets a grunt in response. 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you almost done in there? I need to look at least somewhat presentable, too, you know,” Aziraphale says. 

“Well, I mean, I’m not naked, so come in,” 

Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose. _Thank you for that piece of information, Crowley,_ he thinks. _That’s exactly what I needed to know._ He opens the door slowly and is relieved when he just finds Crowley hunched over the countertop, painting his nails. 

“Black?” Aziraphale asks, looking at the nail polish. 

“Goes with my outfit,” Crowley mumbles in response. 

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale says, nudging Crowley with his elbow to get to the sink. 

Crowley makes a disgruntled noise, something between a squeak and a hiss. “Hey, you messed up my pinky!” he exclaims. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale says, not feeling remorseful in the least. 

Crowley turns back to his nails, peering at them as though he were looking into a microscope. “Precision is key,” he says upon noticing Aziraphale’s stare. 

“I see that.” 

“Have you ever painted your nails?” Crowley asks. 

“I’ve gotten a manicure before, but I’ve never painted them,” Aziraphale replies, slipping into casual conversation. He splashes cool water on his face and then dabs his skin dry with a plush towel. 

“Quite relaxing, if you ask me. I’ll have to show you sometime,” Crowley says. 

“Maybe,” says Aziraphale. “So. Where were you planning on going around town today?” 

“Not sure,” answers Crowley. “There’s an interesting looking cemetery near the pub. Figured I could start working on a vlog there if that’s fine with you.” 

Aziraphale shrugs. “Cemeteries can be nice,” he says. “Just bring a coat. It’s going to be rather frigid today.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Care for my well being?”

“Perhaps, but I’d also prefer for neither of us to catch a cold as well.” 

“I don’t get sick,” Crowley says, but heads downstairs anyway. Like most of his wardrobe, his coat is black, a slick, leathery material that fits him perfectly. He pulls off the trench coat style with ease, something Aziraphale has never been able to do. He has always been a person of soft jumpers and tartan accessories, opting for comfort over fashion. But Crowley seems to go well with the whole atmosphere of the town, Aziraphale notices, though he doesn’t know why. It must be the hair. Or the glasses. 

“Pardon my asking,” Aziraphale says as he walks by Crowley’s side down the cobblestone streets of Tadfield. “But why do you wear those sunglasses so very often? I’ve not yet seen your real eyes.” 

Crowley makes a noise, something like a squeak or a grunt, but he doesn’t answer. 

“Sorry,” says Aziraphale, tucking his hands in his pockets, “I was simply curious.” 

“S’fine. I’ve gotten plenty of questions before. Maybe I’ll explain it to you at some point,” Crowley replies. Aziraphale can feel him tense up slightly, and he averts his eyes. Crowley may be annoying, but Aziraphale knows about boundaries, and he knows when is too close to the line. He almost overstepped, but he mentally vows to be far more careful in the future. Aziraphale coughs slightly, clearing the awkward air between them. 

“Nice day,” he says. 

Crowley shrugs. “Never liked the cold.” 

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Really? You seem as though you’d fit in well with this type of weather.” 

“Nah. Never have. Always liked the summer season.” 

“Hm. I’m the very opposite. I can’t wait for Christmas,” Aziraphale says wistfully. 

“Of course you can’t,” Crowley says with a sarcastic shake of his head. “Take a left here.” 

Aziraphale smiles slightly as they turn and head downtown. He didn’t get to appreciate the quaintness of the town on his journey yesterday, but he is feeling far more relaxed now. 

“You know,” he says, “I never even knew this place existed. Not until I met Anathema.” 

“Likewise,” Crowley responds. 

“It’s quite nice,” Aziraphale says. 

“Not for me. Too small. Too cramped. Too many joyful, smiley, everyone-knows-everyone type people. There’s no secrets in a place like this. No anonymity.” 

_I’m learning a great deal about you, aren’t I, Crowley?_ Aziraphale thinks, gazing at him. His hair once again looks like red fire in the sunlight, his side profile sharp and angular. Crowley is a very attractive man, Aziraphale decides, and wonders if he knows it. Based on what he has seen of Crowley, the man most likely does. 

“I don’t think that is true,” Aziraphale argues. “Cities are so large. So crowded. Very noisy, too. You can’t get any personal space.”

“I suppose,” Crowley agrees. “But the exact same could be said for places like Tadfield.” 

Aziraphale ducks his head in acknowledgment of Crowley’s point. “I’ve always wanted to live in the country,” he then says, and is taken by what he would call a pleasant surprise when Crowley said the very same thing at the same time. The pair pause for a moment and look at each other. 

“Interesting,” says Crowley. “I could see you being a countryside man.” 

“And I suppose you have that spark of peacefulness in you as well,” Aziraphale says in return. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Crowley shooting him a fond smirk, and he feels a bit of a blush creep up on his cheeks -- though it could be the cool air. 

“Just up ahead,” Crowley says, pointing towards a large, rusty gate at the end of the road. Behind it lay several ancient looking gravestones, some standing tall, some shifted so they were almost falling over because of the tree roots. It looks like it jumped straight out of a horror movie, but yet there was an aesthetic to it that is pleasing to look at. 

“It looks very ominous,” Aziraphale murmurs. 

“It looks very fun,” Crowley counters. 

“Are you sure it’s open?” Aziraphale asks, peering through the gaps of the gate. 

“Dunno. But I have my ways,” Crowley says with a toothy smile. He turns towards Aziraphale and holds the door open, winking beneath his sunglasses as he walks by, so quick that Aziraphale almost doesn’t notice. Almost. But he still sees, and it catches him off guard. Normally, Aziraphale wouldn’t be fazed by such an action, but for some reason this made his lips softly fall open. There was something about Crowley, a whole aura he emitted. For the most part, he was just suave, snarky, and a bit all over the place, but Aziraphale was also learning that Anthony J. Crowley was a flirt-- and was proud of it. 

“You coming?” Crowley says, holding his hands up. He’s already several feet onto the cemetery grounds. Aziraphale gazes at him, still thinking about the quick flit of Crowley’s eyelid, beckoning him-- or daring him-- to follow him suit. 

It is much colder within the graveyard, but that, Aziraphale guesses, is because of the shaded area. 

“Have you read some of these stones?” he says as he walks along the grassy paths. “They’re quite old?” 

“We live in England, Aziraphale,” Crowley replies from the other side of the cemetery. “Most graveyards in a place like this are bound to be ancient.” 

“Oh, poor dear, this woman was so young,” Aziraphale says sadly, pointing to a gravestone with an elaborate design on the tomb. He runs his fingers along the top of the stone before moving on. The entire place has an eerie and frankly tragic air looming over it, but yet it is interesting. Aziraphale wants to ask what made Crowley want to come here in the first place, but he refrains. 

“Hey, Aziraphale!” Crowley calls. His voice bounces off the gravestones and the trees, echoing slightly. 

Aziraphale turns and moves to where Crowley stands. “Look at this one,” Crowley says. Aziraphale squints at the faded name and dates engraved. 

“Quite odd,” he says as he reads the name and the date. 

_**AGNES NUTTER** _

_**1600 AD - 1656** _

_**Professional Witch, Prophet, and Occultist** _

“Hang on,” says Aziraphale, growing puzzled. “This is—this is the ancestor that Anathema was telling me about. Agnes Nutter,” 

“Huh,” Crowley says, folding his arms across his chest. “Does she think her house is haunted by her? This Agnes lady?” 

“I think so. Or at least that’s what she implied. She said the ghost was a woman.” 

Crowley hums. “I’ll look her up at some point.” He pulls out his mobile phone and opens the camera, holding it up and then proceeding to snap a picture of the stone. 

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asks, slightly alarmed at the sight of Crowley taking pictures of tombstones. 

“Might use it later,” Crowley answers. He closes the camera and stares around the cemetery for a moment longer before moving away from Aziraphale and down the narrow path. Aziraphale lingers behind, looking at the stone and tracing the name with his forefinger. By the time he moves, Crowley is several feet ahead of him and talking. 

“I am here in this nice little cemetery in Tadfield, as you can see,” the red-haired man maneuvers his camera so it catches his surroundings. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls. 

“Oh, yes. You might notice a rather interesting looking man behind me,” Crowley says. Aziraphale pulls a face but continues towards him until he is next to Crowley and also right up in the camera. 

“Hey, back up, will you?” Crowley says, nudging Aziraphale so they both can fit in the frame. “This is Aziraphale. He’s a—” 

“A friend,” Aziraphale finishes. 

“Yeah. A friend,” Crowley echoes slowly, as though he’s tasting the word in his mouth. Aziraphale doesn’t know if ‘friend’ is the correct term he would use to describe Crowley’s relation to him—Aziraphale would normally consider someone who he’s known for such a short amount of time to be simply an acquaintance—but there is something friendly about Crowley. And 'acquaintance' just seems too proper for a man of Crowley’s character. 

“There was a bit of a mix-up, but we’re working it out,” Crowley continues as he talks into the camera. “Slowly but surely,” he says, and Aziraphale glares at him. 

Crowley notices and pats him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m just telling them the truth, Angel.” 

Aziraphale feels his eyebrows shoot up and is slightly aware of the pink hue that has appeared on his cheeks. “I’m sorry?” 

“One of the fans said you looked like an angel. With your hair. And your eyes.” 

“Hang on, Crowley, are you _live?”_

“I am.” 

“As in live _streaming?”_

“Yeah.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale huffs with exasperation. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shoots back, a touch mockingly. 

“So this is unedited? They can see and hear everything we’re saying?” 

“Well, maybe not _everything_ ,” says Crowley casually. “The signal isn’t great here. I won’t put you on camera unless you want me to.” Crowley turns slightly and Aziraphale moves so he is in the lens. He catches himself by surprise but still wants to be seen. He wonders if any of Crowley’s followers have read his book. Crowley notices Aziraphale’s movements and sighs, focusing the camera on him. 

“Oh, uh…” Aziraphale tries to smile, but he knows he probably just looks like he is in great pain. “Hello, Crowley’s followers!” he says in what he hopes sounds like a bright voice but sounds in what sounds like a weak one to his own ears. 

“Hm, they like you, angel,” Crowley says, pointing to some of the comments on the screen. 

“They—they do?” Aziraphale squeaks. Crowley nods, smiling at him. He inclines his head at the screen and hands the phone to Aziraphale, letting him read the comments. He holds it right up close to his nose, looking like someone’s grandparent who is learning how to text for the first time. 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Idiot,” he says, but there is nothing mean about his tone. It’s more amused. Maybe even fond. “Here. Hold it like this—no, like _this._ There. See? They think you’re cool.” 

Aziraphale chuckles slightly as he reads the comments. One user has commented about his hair, and how it looks like a cloud, and another about his old fashioned looking suit but how he is somehow able to pull it off. They are all very sweet, but there is one comment that takes Aziraphale by surprise. 

“Erm, Crowley? Someone just asked if I, uh—if I’m your boyfriend.”

Crowley looks like he is about to keel over, turning red and stammering as he reaches for the phone. “What—er, no, he’s not. Not my boyfriend. Just a friend. Like I said.” he says quickly, before giving a quick farewell speech and signing off. 

“Do we look like that?” Crowley asks, sounding concerned. 

“Do we look like what? Like we’re dating?” 

“Yes! What else would I be referring to?” 

“Based on how quick your thoughts change, I’d say a number of things, but I assumed that was most likely the main one.” 

“Look, I just...I don’t know if having you in my videos is a good thing,” Crowley says solemnly, in a voice that tells Aziraphale that it is nothing personal, but that he is serious about what he is saying. 

“No, maybe not,” Aziraphale agrees. 

“The last thing we need is for someone to think that we’re—” 

Crowley’s mobile chimes with an alert. _Livestream Analytics and Engagements Update:_ You have 6,000 new views and counting in the last 60 minutes. 

“I-” Crowley chokes out, staring at his phone as though his eyes are going to send lasers through the screen. 

“What? What?” Aziraphale asks, hurrying over and peering at the screen from behind Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Aziraphale, I think you just made me go viral.”

* * *

The number of views and likes and comments on Crowley’s live stream continue to skyrocket throughout the day. He’s always gotten a number of views on his videos and livestreams because that’s just what comes with the deal when you have a side career on YouTube. But he normally gets this many interactions over the course of a day or so, not in an hour. 

Crowley has turned off notifications for most of his apps. While he enjoys reading the comments and feedback his fans give him, he usually saves it for a time when he can manually look through his messages, usually some time before he goes to bed. Some of his followers have even commented on the odd hours he replies to them, but he usually gives them a snarky response explaining that they’re up late (or early) as well and that they are hardly allowed to criticize him for it. 

He knows that his fans and viewers like him—he may not know why, but he knows he is appreciated in the paranormal side of YouTube. Someone once described him as a Buzzfeed Unsolved Channel but with a spark of flamboyant flair, and Crowley can’t say that the comment has ever left his mind since, or that he disagrees with it. He has a niche and he sticks to it, and, like everyone else online, has a persona that he curates and crafts to show his following and the internet. 

Crowley knows it is far from who he is in real life. He tends to have far more energy and personality in his videos than he does in reality, but that could simply be because of the amount of caffeine he consumes before filming. Half the time Crowley seems off the walls when he watches back through his videos, and he wonders how he ever got so much energy to radiate off of him and through the camera. It’s something most YouTubers can do, some of them well, others sounding slightly obnoxious, but he guesses that he is somewhere in between. 

He remembers when he posted his 24 Hours in Leeds Castle, Kent vlog, and the number of watchers who had told him he looked feral, wild, and _alive_ when he was on screen, but the reality was that behind the camera, Crowley was exhausted. He _is_ exhausted. He is bored. He is tired of waking up in the morning to dozens and dozens of messages from random strangers when he really just wants to message people in his life that he actually cares about. 

Not that he has many of those. 

And it’s not like they care about him in return. Not in the least. The Ones He Cared About had decided to cut the rope between them and Crowley and he had simply walked away holding the frayed shards. He hardly thinks about those people now—they didn’t want him so he didn’t see the point in wanting them in return, but every now and then, when Crowley posts a video that gets a rather large consumption, he wonders if they’ve seen it. He wonders if they’ve even commented on it but he just hasn’t realized it. 

He tries to stop the feeling before it reaches him as he watches the notifications on his phone buzz onto his screen, but it doesn’t work. He can’t help but think that maybe they regret what they did to him. That maybe they want to take the broken ropes and tie a knot back together. It’s a feeling that keeps him awake at night and something that clouds his thoughts on the drive home every day, but he didn’t expect it to show up now and so suddenly. He wants it gone, right this instant, but it doesn’t leave. Crowley stares down at his feet and pushes his sunglasses up on his face as he swallows thickly. _Stop thinking about it,_ he tells himself. _They don’t want you, and you don’t need them. You’ve made a life for yourself without their help, and you can’t let them drag you down._

Crowley listens as the battle of his thoughts rages within his mind, the ceasefire only being called when a voice shatters the clamor and sends him startling into reality. 

“It’s him! That’s him, I know it is!” 

“No it’s not, Brian, there are a lot of people with red hair in the world,” comes another voice. 

Aziraphale, who has been by Crowley’s side since they left the graveyard, points over his shoulder. “I think you’ve got some fans headed your way,” he says quietly. Crowley blinks and looks up, shoving his phone in his pocket and plastering what he wants to look like a friendly smile on his face. 

Four kids, all looking to be either eleven or twelve years old and wearing raincoats and wellies, come bounding over from across the street. 

“Hullo sir,” a boy with golden curls says. He offers a toothy grin and Crowley knows exactly where this is going. He doesn’t mind as much when it comes to kids, though. They’re young. They’re curious; they’re excited. And half the time they’re far more polite than the adults. “My name is Adam,” the boy says. “And this is Pepper, Wensleydale and Brian.” 

Crowley gives a little wave and a smile. “I take it you must know who I am?” 

“Of course we do!” exclaims Pepper flailing her hands around. “You’re only the most famous paranormal YouTuber out there!” 

Crowley chuckles, slightly flattered. “Well, I appreciate that,” he says. 

“Have you found any ghosts?” Brian chirps. 

“And who’s this guy?” the boy with the glasses—Wensleydale, Adam had said his name was—asks. 

“Oh, him? That’s Aziraphale,” Crowley says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at Aziraphale, who gives a nod.

“But we haven’t found any ghosts,” Aziraphale says. “At least not yet,” he adds with a look towards Crowley. 

“Oh,” Adam says glumly. 

“Hey,” Crowley says, noticing his change in mood. “Can I tell you a secret?” 

The four kids perk up at the question. They all gather around close, craning their necks to hear. Crowley smiles at their eagerness and lowers his voice. “I’m staying in a haunted house. With Aziraphale.” 

Each of them gasps collectively with excitement. Crowley grins. “Pretty cool, yeah?” 

They nod, all of their heads bobbing up and down in unison. Aziraphale watches Crowley interact with them with some fondness. Crowley notices the look on his face and shrugs. “They’re just kids,” he mouths. Aziraphale laughs slightly and waves a hand, encouraging Crowley to carry on. 

Pepper looks between Aziraphale and Crowley and folds her arms across her chest as though she is thinking deeply. “Is he your boyfriend?” she asks. 

Crowley chokes on air and he can hear Aziraphale suck in a breath behind him. He opens his mouth to speak but Aziraphale cuts him off, shaking his head. Crowley understands. They’re young. They’re kids and they have no filter. It’s not their fault. 

“Pepper!” Adam scolds. “That’s _so_ rude. You can’t just ask people if they’re boyfriends.” 

“But they _look_ like boyfriends!” 

“That doesn’t mean they are, though.” 

Crowley grits his teeth and wonders if they had been watching his live stream earlier. She’s the second person to ask about that, and Crowley worries about how he comes across when he’s with Aziraphale. Sure, the guy is nice enough but isn’t it a bit of a stretch to assume they’re in a relationship? He shoots a glance at Aziraphale who stares back, equally startled. 

“No, no, we’re just...friends. Just friends. That’s all,” Crowley says when he thinks of the proper response. 

“Oh,” Pepper says. She stares at her shoes and then back up to Aziraphale and Crowley. “You look at each other kind of funny for friends. Adam doesn’t look at me like that. You look in love.” 

Crowley feels his mouth fall open. “I see. Yes, well. Would you uh—do you want to take a picture or something?” 

The friends nod, eyes widening with enthusiasm. Crowley sighs with relief, thanking Someone that the rest of the conversation has been diverted. He watches as Adam pulls out a mobile phone, and stares at it. _Kids these days,_ he thinks. _Getting their phones at such a young age._

Everyone gets in position for a selfie and smiles brightly, before Crowley glances up and notices Aziraphale, smiling but looking unsure of what he is supposed to be doing. “Oi!” Crowley calls. “Come here. You’re part of this too, you know.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says through a breath. “I don’t think—” 

“I mean, I’m not going to force you in here, but you’re here with us, so why not?” 

“I suppose,” Aziraphale says, rubbing his hands together. He walks slowly towards the group and stands next to Crowley, so close that Crowley catches his scent, something like almonds and vanilla and sugar. It’s a comforting smell, and he seems to get lost in the fact that he is standing so very close to a man he was sure he hated yesterday but is having second thoughts about today. 

The camera flashes and the group say their goodbyes, the kids running off huddled over the phone, chattering with excitement. 

“Boyfriends,” Crowley says when they’re out of earshot. He spits the word out as though it tastes bad, though it simply feels weird on his tongue. 

“Indeed,” Aziraphale replies, looking over his shoulder as Adam and his friends get on their bikes. 

“Do y’think they watched the stream from earlier?” Crowley asks slowly, debating as to whether or not he should delete his social platforms. 

“It’s possible,” Aziraphale replies, thinking hard. 

“Yeah, maybe I’ll just stick to...solo filming from now on,” Crowley says. “I don’t want you to be in the public eye. Especially like this.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, brushing Crowley’s comment off. “I’ve published a bestselling book. I’m used to being in the eye. Albeit not like this, but you understand my point.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” Crowley mumbles. He just didn’t want to be in a relationship. Not that anyone was forcing him to, but there’s something about being in love and being on the internet that is nerve-wracking. You always feel like you’re being watched. People are expecting to hear the juicy gossip on your romance, about what happens behind closed doors, and, if someone decides to be incredibly nosy, they’ll go hunting for information on your sex life. 

It’s part of what tore Crowley and his last partner apart. The constant pressure of being under the eye of the public had simply gotten to the pair of them, and slowly tore the threads that held them together. Sometimes Crowley will still lie awake, wondering what he might have done differently. He’s never forgotten what happened, the words that were said on their final night together, and the events that followed. And he never stops thinking about how things could have worked out if he had just given up his career and fame when he knew it was hurting the one he loved. 

He might not love Aziraphale like that, but Crowley has seen what life as an icon does to a person. He’s experienced it. Aziraphale doesn’t seem too far gone, even if he has dealt with some of it before. But comparing book authors and YouTubers is like comparing apples and oranges. And Crowley won’t let Aziraphale endure the challenges that come with having a life as a well-known internet star, because contrary to what many people believe, it is a harder life than one might expect. What makes matters worse is that, based on what Crowley has been seeing and experiencing for the last few hours, it’s likely that he is on the rise and Aziraphale is flying up with him. But Crowley isn’t going to let him fall. Not if he has any say in where this might go. 

* * *

“There’s a pub up the street,” says Aziraphale after the sun begins to sink behind the town. 

“Rose and Crown,” Crowley confirms. “A nice little place. Good food. Even better alcohol. Are you hungry?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, listening to his stomach growl. “And I also want to talk.” 

Crowley turns towards him, lip quirking up in surprise. “Oh?” 

“Nothing serious, but I just...I’m having many thoughts.” 

“I see.” 

“And I can’t get them straight unless I eat.” 

“Fair enough. I’d also like a beer, so it’s a win-win.” 

They travel up the street and take in the quaintness of Tadfield. It’s quieter at dusk, and there’s a different air to it. Aziraphale wouldn’t call it peaceful, but eerie isn’t what he’d use to describe it, despite what his brain thinks. There’s something about the place though that seems off. It feels like whoever is born here will die here as well. It doesn’t seem like the kind of place people would come to for a holiday, but it has a sort of gravity to it that also looks like it stops people from leaving. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s unsettling. 

“Up here,” Crowley says, pointing at a sign with the words Rose & Crown written in faded but elaborate writing. 

“You seem to know this area very well,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley shrugs. “My parents used to come here,” 

“Oh?” 

“I’ve been exactly once. When I was very small, but still. I didn’t think I’d come back.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Crowley sucks in a breath and sticks his hands in his pockets. “What kind of food do you like?” 

“You didn’t answer my—” 

“What kind of food do you like, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks rather pointedly. He shoots Aziraphale a look, signaling that he doesn’t want to share any more about his personal life with him. At least for the time being. 

Aziraphale understands where Crowley is coming from, and he hates it when he goes full therapist mode, especially outside of the office. But it’s second-nature to him now. He almost doesn’t realize that he’s doing it until he’s called out on it. Crowley is clearly uncomfortable with the questions, even if Aziraphale feels like he hasn’t been asking that many. 

“Oysters,” Aziraphale replies, hoping to make himself sound bright. 

“Of course you do, you posh idiot,” Crowley says, but the venom in his tone has completely vanished. “I’ve never had an oyster before.” 

“You—you what?” Aziraphale exclaims in disbelief. 

Crowley shakes his head. “They look bloody awful.” 

“Oh, but they’re not, you see.” 

“Seafood is gross. And don’t get me started on sushi.” 

Aziraphale gasps aloud. “Sushi? Whatever do you mean, sushi is delicious!” 

“Eck.” 

“Not even with soy sauce?” 

“Nope.” 

“What food do you like then?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley shrugs. “I don’t eat much. Only when I have to.” 

Aziraphale stares at him. “Only when you have to? So you never, say, just eat for pleasure. Just to do it?” 

“Not really. I’m a busy man.” 

“Sure you are,” Aziraphale says playfully. 

“Hey!” Crowley replies defensively. “YouTube is hard work.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that it is. But I find it hard to believe that you’ve never just...gone out and eaten a slice of cake just to do it.” 

“What’s the point?” 

“Well, you seem like the kind of guy that likes to go out for a drink every now and then. Why?” Aziraphale says. 

“Because I like to,” Crowley replies.

“That’s exactly why I go out and eat sushi. Because I like it. Book writing is hard work, too.” 

“And here I was thinking that you never took a moment for yourself,” Crowley says. “Dr. Aziraphale Fell, bestselling parapsychology author who likes cake and sushi.” Crowley waves his arms out in front of him as though he is presenting Aziraphale to the world. _It’s kind of cute_ , Aziraphale thinks. 

“And you—Anthony Crowley, famous paranormal investigative YouTuber who works very hard on his hair in the morning and likes wine.” 

Crowley laughs. “Frighteningly accurate,” he says. 

“I am a therapist. I’ve gotten rather good at reading people.” 

“Well, I’d hope so. Isn’t a therapist supposed to be good with people?” 

“I said I was good at reading people. Not that I was good with them,” Aziraphale points out. He has always been an introvert. He is someone who would rather stay home on the weekends curled up with a book rather than out at a club (Aziraphale can’t even picture himself in a club. Not that he’s tried). He never liked traveling, unless it was close. So meeting new people as a psychiatrist had seemed a bit unnerving to him, but he also learned that, while he received new clients every now and then, he would get a chance to know them and form a connection with them. It was different than talking to total strangers.

“It’s slightly different,” Aziraphale says. “Normally I’m not good with people. I can’t just make casual conversation with someone in a bar, but these people...they’re different. I get to know them. They’re like books. They have stories and they have layers. Sometimes I’m able to delve in quick like I’m reading a story that hooks me right away and begins climbing. Other times, it’s like I’m reading a book that trudges up a hill slowly, something that reveals certain plot points to me one at a time.” 

“Interesting,” Crowley says, holding the door of the pub open for Aziraphale as they walk in. The atmosphere of the place is cozy. It smells like whatever one thinks comfort smells like, like warm food and laughter and all around contentment. Aziraphale has always loved pubs. They remind him of his own flat in Soho. Cramped but homey, but still suitable for his needs. He doesn’t normally spend a lot of time in pubs, but when he does, he enjoys it. 

“You think so?” Aziraphale asks, pleased that someone actually finds his work even the tiniest bit compelling. 

“I do. Seriously. You do good work, Aziraphale. You help people. I just make crappy videos and for some reason people like them.” 

“But that’s not a bad thing, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, leading them over to a table and sitting down. “Sometimes people need a bit of good entertainment. As long as it’s accurate,” he adds. Accuracy is key. Sure, you can have entertainment, but it’s simply not as good if it’s not true.

A young waitress walks over to the table, wearing a simultaneously bright and tired smile on her face. “What can I get for you tonight?” she asks. 

“I’ll have a Stella Artois,” Crowley says, with a glance towards Aziraphale. “What about you?” 

Aziraphale notices the exhaustion leaking through the waitress’s curated expression and decides to make it easy for her. 

“Same as him,” 

“Any food for you tonight?” 

“We’ll split a large Shepherd's pie,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow over the top of his sunglasses. “ _Split_?” 

“Why not?” 

“Dunno, just...OK, then.” 

The waitress nods and walks away, leaving the pair. 

“It looks like you almost _want_ people to think we’re dating,” Crowley says, sounding jokingly suspicious. 

“Oh, no. Definitely not. I’m just...I’m sure you’re hungry as well.” 

“Sure. Yeah. OK.” 

“I do wonder though,” says Aziraphale thoughtfully, “what could have made people think that we’re in a relationship.” 

“Only God knows,” replies Crowley, obviously thinking the very same thing. “But here’s the thing,” he continues. “If you’re not comfortable being on camera, I won’t have you on. It’s entirely up to you. It’s nothing personal, just...common courtesy I guess. Let me know, OK?” 

“Crowley, it’s really not a problem. I don’t mind. If anything, Gabriel would probably love seeing me get to be on camera with a famous YouTuber. He’d probably think it would do wonders for promotions and such,” Aziraphale says. 

“I’m sorry, who?” Crowley asks. He takes a sip of his beer which the waitress has just delivered along with the food. 

“My boss. Or, the head of the publishing company.” 

“I’m guessing from the look on your face, you don’t like him all that much,” says Crowley. 

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” says Aziraphale, “but he can be a bit rash if you ask me. And boisterous. Loud, too.” 

“Is he American?” 

“Yes.” 

“That explains it.” 

Aziraphale stares at Crowley and laughs. “He wants me to publish the sequel to my book. And soon. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get it into him in time.” 

Crowley grabs a fork and shoves it into Shepherd's pie, watching as the steam rises from it. “I don’t think that’s true. You seem like a very orderly guy. Always following a schedule.” 

“I try to at least,” says Aziraphale. “He makes it hard. I feel like he’s always there. Like a hawk. Watching until I slip so he can pounce.” 

Crowley looks concerned. “Seems like a lot of pressure to put on one person,” he says with a dash of sympathy. Aziraphale tries to ignore it—he’s never been one to bask in the sympathy of others, no matter how well-intentioned it is—but deep down he is touched by Crowley’s care. 

“I won’t deny that it is,” Aziraphale says. “I am sure he is well-intentioned, really, but Gabriel is a rule-follower...well, he _makes_ the rules, I should say. And should anyone break them…” he trails off. 

“All hell breaks loose?” Crowley finishes. 

“Basically.” Aziraphale takes a bite of the pie, savoring the meat and potatoes. It’s one of his favorite foods, and something about this certain meal is just better than ever before. 

“So he’s a wanker.” 

“That’s a stretch,” Aziraphale says, as though he is afraid someone might be listening. He glances around and takes a sip of his beer, trying to stay casual. Crowley notices and smiles slightly. 

“I won’t tell anyone. But am I wrong?” 

“Not entirely.” 

They sit in silence for a moment, eating and drinking, and taking in their surroundings. It’s been a long time since Aziraphale has had dinner with anyone besides a work colleague, and even then, he’s barely had any meet-ups with people from the firm. He can’t recall the last time he’s ever had dinner with a friend. The word feels weird in his mind. Especially when Crowley is in the picture. Aziraphale Fell, eating dinner with his friend Anthony Crowley, someone who, only yesterday had appeared that he was going to be Aziraphale’s arch-nemesis for the next week. But looks are deceiving and Aziraphale had been proven wrong—though, for some reason, he didn’t mind it so much. Deep down, Crowley seemed like a good person. He was like the book Aziraphale had been talking about. He has a cover, but the inside of him seems to be filled with all kinds of stories, things Aziraphale hopes he will be able to discover and get lost in. He just needs time. Crowley needs time.

“Mr. Crowley?” a high-pitched voice rings out from the middle of the pub, startling both Aziraphale and Crowley from their thoughts. They look up to see a small woman with wild orange hair prancing their way, a wide grin stretched across her face. 

“Madame Tracy?” Crowley asks with a slight smile, sipping his beer and then setting it aside. The woman—Tracy—continues to make her way over to their table and holds open her arms, looking like a colorful bird. 

“It’s been ages! Look at you!” she exclaims happily. She takes Crowley in for a hug, something that he looks taken aback by, but that he returns nonetheless. She hangs on for a long moment before Crowley pats her back awkwardly and gently pries her off of him. Tracy doesn’t seem to notice and instead pulls a chair up to the table. Crowley seems to notice Aziraphale’s confused—and frankly concerned—expression and whispers to him. 

“Madame Tracy. An old friend of mine. Almost like an aunt. Eccentric, but kind.” 

Aziraphale nods with a smile and watches the quirky woman begin to speak. 

“It’s been far too long, Crowley,” she says. 

“I’ve been busy. Working hard or hardly working, but I’ll leave that for you to decide,” he says. 

“I see. Still making...oh, what do you call them, YouTube videos, then?” 

“I am, yes.” 

“And I see you’ve got a partner!” Madame Tracy exclaims with glee, gesturing towards Aziraphale. Crowley closes his eyes, and Aziraphale can practically see the thoughts rushing through his mind. This is the third one today. He supposes they do look rather like they’re on a date, but still. What is it about them that seems to make people assume such a thing? 

“Ah, no. Still single,” Crowley says, correcting her kindly. 

“Oh. That’s quite a shame. But no matter. The right one will come along soon enough. Patience, love.” 

Crowley laughs weakly and takes a long sip of his beer. Aziraphale wants to laugh at how Crowley looks when he is flustered but he refrains. Madame Tracy seems sweet enough, like that one quirky grandmother that everyone seems to have, but she is the very opposite of Crowley. It is very entertaining to watch. 

“What brings you to town?” Madame Tracy asks. 

“Work. Filming a video. Trying to hunt a ghost,” Crowley answers. 

“A ghost? In Tadfield?” Madame Tracy says, sounding surprised. 

“Precisely.” 

“But where?” 

“Jasmine Cottage,” Crowley says. “I’m staying with Aziraphale. He’s here for work as well.” 

“Oh, lovely,” Madame Tracy says and based on the look on her face, she still believes firmly that Crowley and Aziraphale are a couple on holiday together. 

“We’re only here for a week, but the place is supposedly haunted. By a woman.” 

“A woman? Who?” 

“We don’t know,” Aziraphale chimes in, rescuing Crowley from the flood of questions. “But we just know it’s a woman.” 

“I see. An ancient ghost?” 

Crowley pulls out his phone. “We think it might be her. You’ve lived in this town for a long time, Madame Tracy. Think you might know?” He shows her the picture of the gravestone from earlier. 

“Agnes Nutter,” Madame Tracy murmurs. “Well, she was from far before my time, but they did teach her about her in school. Apparently, she was quite well-known here.” 

“Oh?” Aziraphale says, intrigued. “I hadn’t known that.” 

“Yeah,” agrees Crowley, “Me neither.” 

“I suppose you wouldn’t,” Madame Tracy says. “But we’ve got time. Let me tell you a bit.” She leans in and rests on her elbows, as though telling a secret. “Make note, if you are sure it is her. I don’t know how much information I can give you, but I will try my very best.” 

“We’re all ears,” says Crowley. Madame Tracy looks at both of them for a long moment before beginning. 

“It was said that Agnes Nutter was a smart woman. And beautiful. She caught the eye of many men, but she never gave herself over to them. She was a very independent lady,” Madame Tracy says. Aziraphale stares at her intently, listening hard. Whatever it is she had to say could lead them to solve this mystery. 

“She never let herself be brought down, especially by a man. She was a feminist of her time, if you will. But her intelligence was that of a scholar’s, and for that time, intelligent women were condemned. It wasn’t right, especially in a provincial place like this. The townspeople wanted things to be normal. They didn’t like it when someone was odd, or when someone was different. So, naturally, she got in trouble for absolutely nothing.” 

Aziraphale hums sadly. “Did they...did they kill her?” 

Tracy purses her lips together. “People didn’t like odd women, especially during times like that. So yes, they killed her. Burned her, in fact. Accused her of being a witch—which, if I am being honest with myself, think might have been true.” 

Crowley winces but listens nonetheless. “But how do you know? How did _they_ know?” 

“They didn’t. Not really. And I’m no expert, but it was said that closer towards the end, that Agnes was bitter. Cold. Distant. Shut herself away in Jasmine Cottage writing what is said to be a book of prophecies. And to predict the future back then, and to supposedly be accurate. I don’t know what it is, but, understandably, people thought it was witchcraft. Perhaps she was an occultist. Sometimes people do have psychic abilities, but I can’t imagine what it was like for her.” 

Aziraphale swallows hard. “Prophecies? An entire book of them?” He can feel his voice waver with bewilderment. If he is thinking correctly, Anathema had a book of prophecies in her possession. Something that historians probably could find valuable. 

“That’s right,” replies Madame Tracy in a low voice. “They took her book and meant to burn it along with her, until someone stole it.” 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “And did they ever find it?” 

“No. Not that I know of. But some like to say that she still walks around, looking for it. After all, she did write most of it in that cottage. So maybe what you are saying is true. Maybe the home is haunted.” 

“Hm.” Aziraphale stares into the golden beer, suddenly losing all of his appetite. If Anathema had this book, and if it was as treasured as Madame Tracy made it seem, and if there was truly a ghost that walked along the halls of Jasmine Cottage at night, then they needed to get it. And fast. 

“You alright there?” Crowley asks, catching the wistful look on Aziraphale's face. He snaps back into reality. 

“Perfectly,” he replies. 

“Well,” Madame Tracy says, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I’ll leave you two alone for now. I hope that things will be well. Cheers, love,” she says, and pecks Crowley on the cheek. “Catch that ghost for me.” 

“I’ll try,” Crowley calls back, but she is already walking out the door. 

“Quirky woman,” Aziraphale says jokingly. 

“Quirky, yeah, but that story. Burning someone alive? It's a bit gruesome, don’t you think?” 

“Very gruesome,” Aziraphale agrees. “But the book. Anathema has a book like that. Maybe even the exact one.” 

Crowley stares hard into the wood of the table before it slowly dawns on him. “What if that’s why she’s here? To get The Book back?” 

“What?” 

“Honestly, have you ever watched a horror movie? Lesson Number One: half the time the ghosts who are haunting the characters are looking for something. They didn’t die content. They have a motive. They need something and they’re going to terrorize everyone they come across until they get what they want. Maybe that’s what you heard last night.” 

“What, you think she was looking for The Book?"

“I mean, maybe,” Crowley says. “It’s not much but it’s all I’ve got.”

“But we don’t hear her in daylight,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley laughs slightly. “Horror Movie Lesson Number Two: the spooky things only happen at night. It’s just how it works.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t look convinced, but Crowley isn’t phased. “What time were you downstairs last night?” 

Aziraphale shrugs. “Sometime after midnight, I suppose.” 

“And that’s when you heard it?” 

“Yes. What’s your point?” 

“How about we try this,” Crowley begins, pressing his hands on the table. “I'll stay with you tonight. Downstairs. We can do the exact thing you did last night, but this time you’ll have an extra pair of eyes. Maybe I’ll even film it. For video content, of course.” 

“That could work,” Aziraphale says. 

“Let’s just try it. You never know what might happen,” Crowley replies. 

“OK.” Aziraphale extends his hand towards Crowley, who stares back at it as if he’s never seen a hand before and isn’t sure what he should do. “We’re partners now. Hunting ghosts together. You wanna make things even more movie-esque? Shake on it. That’s what they always do in the movies.” 

Crowley laughs and rolls his eyes, but shakes Aziraphale’s hand nonetheless. They leave the pub and walk down the street, back towards the cottage. The sun has gone down entirely now, and Tadfield is quiet. Agnes will be out soon. They need to be ready. Crowley opens the door to Jasmine Cottage, looking at Aziraphale in the darkness. 

“Let’s catch a ghost,” he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I'd love to hear your thoughts and what you think might happen next in the comments and kudos! I hope you liked it, and I'll get to making the next chapter soon. You can find me on twitter (@elxetera) and tumblr (@ineffable-yikes)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley look for The Book and find some shocking revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those whole follow me on Twitter, you'll know that I fought and struggled while writing this chapter. It took me a solid two weeks to finally get a *very* rough out onto my Google Docs, and it's not as long as the other chapters, but oh, well. If there are any spelling/grammar errors that I have missed, just pretend they aren't there. Sometimes my hands type faster than my brain thinks.
> 
> Thank you to Jen — [Jenanigans1207](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207) — for being so encouraging and listening to me scream in her DMs about this chapter and reassuring me that what I see isn't always what my reader will see. 
> 
> There is a trigger warning in this chapter, and it starts when A+C begin talking about a pair of shoes. It mentions blood, and you should be able to skip over it and still understand what's happening if that is something that bothers you. 
> 
> I can't promise on how quickly I'll be posting future updates because it's Spooky Season 2.0: Exam Season. Plus, the holidays are coming up and life is always crazy then. But I promise you're going to get the whole story -- my brain refuses to let me write anything else until this is done (I've tried to and I've failed). Thank you for being so encouraging and enthusiastic with this story, and I hope that you'll continue to like it!

The house is much cooler tonight, but then again, Crowley has always been a naturally cold person. He never knew why he was this way, but even in a place that was a comfortable temperature, he would always find himself wearing some sort of jumper. And the lack of insulation in Jasmine Cottage combined with the fact that it’s late October in England doesn’t make things any better. He can feel himself begin to shiver and contemplates going up to his room to grab a jacket. 

“Cold, are you?” Aziraphale says, glancing at Crowley from over the top of the book he is reading. 

“A bit,” Crowley says through gritted teeth. 

“You know there’s a throw blanket right behind you?” Aziraphale replies, with a touch of sweetness and amusement. Crowley turns quickly and notices a cozy-looking tartan blanket draped over the back of the sofa. He grabs it and wraps it around himself like a cape, and is feeling warmer in a few minutes. 

Aziraphale sighs heavily and snaps his book shut. Crowley catches sight of the cover— _Bleak House,_ by Charles Dickens; of course Aziraphale would be reading something like that—and watches as Aziraphale stands and adjusts his coat. 

“It’s been three hours,” he says with some concern. “And it’s past midnight. I would’ve thought she might’ve made an appearance by now.” 

Crowley shrugs. “Not all ghosts stick to a schedule,” he says. “Get some coffee, if you like. If what you’re saying is true, she’ll come sooner or later.” 

Aziraphale looks slightly affronted. “I _am_ telling the truth, Crowley. Honest to God.” 

Crowley holds up his hands in mock surrender. “OK, OK, I don’t doubt you _that_ much. Just...put some double cream on it, too. Give yourself a break.” 

Aziraphale sighs and mumbles something about ‘you don’t get a break when hunting a ghost’, but retreats to the kitchen to prepare some coffee nonetheless. Crowley decides to follow him and springs off of the sofa in Aziraphale’s wake. He watches as the other man moves around the kitchen, preparing his coffee.

“Want a cup?” Aziraphale asks, but there is something rather distracted about his tone. 

Crowley shakes his head. “Nah.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t reply, and instead looks increasingly put out. Crowley cocks his head to the side in what he would consider to be sympathy. 

“Hey, don’t lose hope. I believe you, and with what Madame Tracy told us earlier, it’s very likely we’ll be able to catch Agnes,” Crowley says, trying to calm Aziraphale. He is quiet for a long moment, as if digesting Crowley’s words. After a second, he grabs a cup from the cupboard and slams the door shut. Crowley flinches at the noise, and Aziraphale mumbles an apology. 

“Distress isn’t a good look on you, you know,” Crowley teases. Aziraphale glares at him and Crowley bites his tongue to keep from saying more. 

“Look,” Aziraphale says, walking over to the liquor cabinet and grabbing a bottle of whiskey. Crowley notices the generous amount of liquid he pours into his cup, but doesn’t comment. “It’s not just that. I’m worried about The Book.”

“The prophecies thingie?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale nods. “If Agnes is looking for it, we have to get it to her before something happens.” 

“Or someone dies.” 

" _Before something happens,_ ” Aziraphale repeats, this time more pointedly. He takes a long sip of his alcoholic coffee. “I don’t know what Agnes would do if she didn’t get her book, but I also don’t think I would like to find out.” 

Crowley shudders. “Good point.” 

“So, we need to figure out if Anathema has this book, or if she doesn’t, and if not, who does.” 

“I mean, I don’t think she would carry it around with her all the time, would she?” Crowley asks, thinking deeply. 

Aziraphale shrugs. “Anathema, as much as I love her, is a tough client.” He takes a seat at the table, across from Crowley. “And for her, I don’t think carrying around a book of prophecies would necessarily be abnormal.” 

Crowley frowns. “What does she do with it?” 

Aziraphale bites his lip as he hesitates, and Crowley knows that he can’t be talking about his clients outside of the office, but he hopes that he’ll be told something. He doesn’t like to be kept in the dark, especially when the matter at hand is serious. 

“I...she...she lives off of it. Almost every aspect of her life is determined by that damn book. It’s like she was raised being told that she wasn’t allowed to be able to think for herself, because The Book would decide her fate for her.” 

Crowley rubs a hand along his neck. “Poor girl,” he murmurs. Aziraphale lets out a breath and nods solemnly. 

“But we need to get it. And get it back to Agnes. Because Heaven forbid that something happens to Anathema or anybody else.” 

“If she didn’t have the book with her,” Crowley begins, “do you think it might be somewhere in the house?” 

Aziraphale shrugs. “It’s possible,” he says. He takes a sip of his coffee and seems to notice Crowley thinking from behind the rim of the cup.

“If you’re thinking of what I think you’re thinking of, Crowley—” 

“We could always go looking for it,” Crowley blurts out before Aziraphale can say anything more to shut him down. “It can’t be hidden far.” 

Aziraphale sighs and closes his eyes. “That’s exactly what I was afraid you’d say,” he mumbles. 

“Well,” says Crowley with a bit of exhausted venom, “it’s either that or wait around for someone to get harmed or worse. And we don’t have to let her know.” 

A conflicted look crosses Aziraphale’s very serious face. He looks around the kitchen, as though he is being watched, and stares back at his coffee, pressing his lips together. Crowley can practically see his brain working. 

“It’s risky,” Aziraphale tries to argue. Crowley scoffs. 

“It is? I never would have thought that,” he says sarcastically, and Aziraphale shoots him a warning look. “Look, we don’t have to do it, but it might mean less content for your book, you know?” 

Aziraphale looks pained by that. “Fine,” he huffs. 

“Right, well, we can’t wait around any longer,” Crowley says. “I’ll look down here and you look upstairs and then we’ll switch, yeah? See if we can spot anything the other might have missed.” 

Aziraphale nods. “OK.” He downs the rest of his coffee and pushes his chair back, moving towards the stairwell. “Be careful, Crowley,” he says softly, gazing at Crowley as he rests his hand on the bannister. 

“I’ll be fine. Let’s get to work,” Crowley replies, and listens to the creaking wood as Aziraphale retreats upstairs. Crowley creeps back into the lounge, and pulls out his phone to use as a flashlight. He’s left his camera that he uses for YouTube on the coffee table, and it waits to be picked up. He hasn’t really _vlogged_ since before Aziraphale arrived at Jasmine Cottage, and he supposes now might be a good time to do so. He grabs the device and flicks it on, watching as the thing warms up. 

Crowley hits the record button as soon as it does. “What’s up folks, Crowley here, and I am standing here in the living room of the cottage.” He refrains from saying the particular name of the place, for safety reasons and all that, though he wouldn’t be surprised if many people already know where he is regardless. 

“Aziraphale and I think this house might be haunted by a woman who went by the name of Agnes Nutter, if any of you have heard of her. So, we’re looking around the house for any evidence we can find on her, and what she has left behind.” Again, he leaves out any information on The Book. You never know who could be watching, and he would rather be safe and keep Anathema’s secret a secret. 

“I’m hanging out here on the ground floor, and Aziraphale is upstairs. We’ll trade-off in a bit, but for now, enjoy this little house tour, I guess.” _The lighting is absolute shit,_ Crowley thinks, but that really isn’t a problem, as he isn’t technically there to give them a grand tour of Jasmine Cottage. Anathema had obviously given him the permission to film and share his content online, so that wasn’t an issue, but he needs to do his job of YouTubing and also helping find this ghost per Aziraphale’s request. He considers that a job as well. Not a job he expected to have, as Crowley had originally intended to stay out of Fell’s way for the week, but a job he has taken up nonetheless. 

“There are several bookshelves here in the lounge, and I’m thinking that maybe…” he moves over to the tall shelves and shines his flashlight on a number of the book spines. “Maybe I might be able to find something here.” 

It briefly occurs to Crowley that putting the night vision lens on his camera might be helpful, as well as using his REM POD, but he decides against it. Crowley scans the titles and covers of each of the books, naming them aloud as he goes along. None of them are providing him with any important information, or anything that he needs to know. Most of the books on the shelf have something to do with witchcraft or science. But Crowley doesn’t know if he should count a book of prophecies as ‘witchcraft’. However, one does catch his eye, and he squints to see the title through the darkness. _British Witches Through the Ages._ Crowley pauses for a long moment, staring at it and thinking hard. _Maybe there’s something more about Agnes in here_ , he thinks. 

“Well, there’s nothing here, at least not yet,” he murmurs loud enough for the camera to hear before shutting it off. He places the camera on the shelf and slides the book from its place. It weighs more than Crowley expects, and he has to stop himself from losing his footing. Flipping it open, Crowley takes a seat on the couch and flicks on a lamp. 

There’s a table of contents in the front, and Crowley scans it, eyes darting through the names until he finds what he is looking for. _Nutter, Agnes._ He flicks through the pages, passing through a number of old historical figures that he’s never heard the name of when a neatly folded note drifts from the book and to the floor. 

Crowley furrows his brow, and sets the book on the sofa, bending down to get the note. He unfolds it carefully and begins to read the neat, round but loopy handwriting. 

> _Hi Crowley. I had a feeling you might be looking for The Book and that you might look here. Well, Agnes knew, actually. I just need you to know that if you come across it, you need to be careful with what’s inside. It does tell the truth and the future, after all. Agnes has never been wrong before. Some of what she might say could be alarming, but I trust that you will figure it out. You or Aziraphale. Maybe the both of you. But if you find the Book, you have to promise me that you will not let it get into the wrong hands. There are plenty of people that want this book for research and whatnot, but it must stay with me. Please be careful with it and don’t lose it, no matter what._

Crowley looks up from the note and folds it back closed, furrowing his brow. Agnes knew that he and Aziraphale were going to be looking for the book, so what else does she know? For a moment, Crowley feels violated. Violated because there’s now the possibility that some 17th-century witch knows all of his secrets, his past, present, and future. And for a moment, he doesn’t even want to find the book. He doesn’t want to see what is written. It would be like spoiling your own birthday present. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley calls softly. He stares up at the ceiling as if he can see through it, waiting to hear a response. There’s the sound of soft footsteps, overhead and Crowley recognizes them to be Aziraphale. The quick, light pattern of his feet on the wood is something Crowley has already become accustomed to hearing, even over the course of a few days. A door opens and shuts upstairs before Aziraphale responds. 

“Yes?” 

“I think I’ve got something that you’re going to want to take a look at,” Crowley says. 

There’s another long moment of silence. “Right, yes, er. Um. Could you—could you come join me up here? I think I’ve got something as well.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow and stuffs the note in his pocket before hurrying up the stairs. 

“I’m in the bedroom,” Aziraphale says softly. Crowley can detect a wariness in his voice that wasn’t there earlier and he slows his pace. 

“Yeah?” Crowley asks. He pushes the door open and it creaks rather loudly, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. He is still in the moonlight that is cast through the bedroom window, face pale and concerned. He looks like he would topple over if Crowley pushed him with just his forefinger. 

“You alright?” Crowley asks solicitously. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale begins, his voice wavering slightly. “Were these shoes here before?” 

“Shoes?” Crowley repeats. Aziraphale turns his head slowly and points to them. 

“These,” he murmurs. Crowley furrows his brow as he stares at them. They’re a gorgeous, cream color, with small heels and a round front. They look old, decades, maybe even a century old, like they’ve popped out of some Regency Era novel. Crowley moves softly towards them and crouches down, gazing at them. They’re perfectly placed on the wooden floors, each shoe sitting as though a marker had been put beneath them like the ones used for props on a stage. 

“I didn’t see them when I first got here. They weren’t there last night, either, then?” Crowley asks, looking up at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale shakes his head silently. “Just found them. I mean I _just_ …” 

“Hey, it’s OK,” Crowley murmurs, getting up and walking towards Aziraphale. “You don’t think they were here earlier tonight, either?” Crowley says. Aziraphale bites his lip. 

“No. I checked in here earlier and then went into the office to see if I could find anything and when I came back they were here.” 

If Crowley is being honest with himself, he admits that the pair of shoes just magically appearing is a little bit creepy. But he can’t see why Aziraphale is so put out by them, either. 

“Did you not see it?” Aziraphale asks in a whisper. 

Crowley shakes his head, puzzled. “No.” 

“If you would take your sunglasses off for once, you’d see what I am talking about.” 

Crowley stares at him. “Look, you don’t know me well but I think you know me well enough to know that I don’t like—” 

“I’m not forcing you to,” Aziraphale says through a breath. “But I am a bit agitated, as you can clearly see, and so I truly would appreciate it.” 

Crowley sighs. “Fine.” He slides them off and rests them in his hand, crouching down to look at the shoes once more. “Can I touch them, do you think?” he murmurs, gazing at them. They look so incredibly perfect in both their placement and design, and as someone who appreciates the fashion world, Crowley feels like it would be a crime to even lay a finger on the shoe. 

“Depends on if you like blood or not,” Aziraphale says shakily. Crowley’s eyes shoot up and he stares at him. 

“What?” 

Aziraphale gazes back at him with a deep frown. Crowley gapes at him for a moment, no longer worried about his sunglasses or touching the shoes. “Blood?” he asks in a low voice. He turns away from Aziraphale once again and looks at the shoes. Running his finger along the front of one, Crowley begins to notice that the texture is all wrong, it’s too smooth, like it had been dunked in water and hadn’t dried. 

He hates it. 

The feeling makes his stomach feel like it’s falling thousands of stories, and he can feel bile rising in the back of his throat. 

“Why—why would there be—” 

“I don’t know.” 

“But there’s no one here except us.” 

“I know.” 

“Do we tell Anathema?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Aziraphale’s responses are slow but laced with icy fear. He is standing with perfect posture, but he looks like he might fall over any second. Crowley abandons the shoes, wiping his fingers quickly on his trousers. He walks towards Aziraphale and slides his sunglasses back on, eyes adjusting to the darkness. 

“We’ll clean off the shoes. Maybe look into them a little, see where they might’ve come from.” 

Aziraphale stares at him, eyes wide, a silent argument flashing in his entire expression. Crowley pauses mid-breath and looks at him. He never noticed how blue the man’s eyes were. They were a brilliant blue, like the color of the sky on a crisp, clear day, with some sort of grey mixed in, like clouds. Crowley had never been this close to Aziraphale before, and their proximity felt oddly intimate. For a long moment, something that probably lasted only a few seconds but felt like minutes, they looked at each other. Crowley didn’t break eye-contact, and nor did Aziraphale, not for a long time. 

It felt strange, being so close to a person that Crowley had only met yesterday. It felt like they were in some sort of movie, a scene where people realize so many things about themselves, about the other characters, and only in a matter of seconds. 

Aziraphale must have thought so as well because he backed away quickly. “Sorry,” Crowley heard him say under his breath. He nodded in return, but didn’t reply. 

“Can we leave them?” Aziraphale says quickly. “The shoes? Just for tonight. We can look at them again later on, but...not now.” 

Crowley gives a short, single nod. “Of course.” He shoots one last look at the shoes on the floor, taking in them and their eeriness. _This shit will probably haunt my dreams tonight_ , Crowley thinks with a frown. 

“Right,” murmurs Aziraphale from his right. “I think I’d like to continue looking,” he says, and Crowley can tell that while he is trying his best to remain calm, he doesn’t want to discuss or look at the shoes any longer. 

“Where to now?” Crowley asks softly. 

“The office. There are not many rooms up here,” Aziraphale replies. “What did you say you wanted to show me earlier?” he asks after a moment, lingering in the doorway.

“Oh.” Crowley swallows and reaches into his jacket, pulling out the note that Anathema had left him. “Found this in a book downstairs,” he says, passing Aziraphale the folded paper. 

Aziraphale furrows his brow and takes the note from Crowley, reading silently. 

“She wrote all this but didn’t think to tell us where the book is?” Aziraphale says once he is finished. 

Crowley shrugs. “That’s what it looks like. I don’t think she wants us to find it, though. From what the note looks like.” 

“But why?” 

“Could be dangerous. From what it sounds like, Agnes was smart. She knew things. And sometimes knowing all there is to know isn’t always good.” 

“So you’re saying…” 

“We could find something. Something that isn’t necessarily _good,”_ says Crowley with a sigh. “And there are other people who want The Book, too. If we find it, we have to keep it safe. Because it could put other people in danger, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale digests this. “But if we don’t find it, we can’t put Agnes at rest.” 

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t go looking for it,” Crowley says. “But we need to be careful. Or else something will—”

There’s a loud bang followed by a crash of what sounds like numerous books and other materials clattering down to the floor from the other room. Crowley jumps slightly, wincing at the noise, hardly registering the fact that Aziraphale’s hand has flown from his side and into Crowley’s hand. Crowley blinks as Aziraphale’s fingers tighten around his hand, his entire demeanor tenser than it already is. Crowley glances down at their entwined hands, part of him taken aback but another part not minding in the least. 

“Uh, Aziraphale, you’re holding my hand,” Crowley says, still gazing at their hands. Aziraphale is wearing a golden pinky wing with a design that looks like angel wings on it, and his hand is warm but not uncomfortably so. 

Aziraphale gasps and looks up sheepishly. “Oh! I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” 

Crowley chuckles and lets out a breath. “‘S fine. I don’t mind, not really.” 

“You’re sure?” Aziraphale asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Quite. Now, what do we do?” Crowley asks, trying to draw his attention to something other than the fact that he’s holding hands with his enemy-acquaintance-work-partner-friend. 

“Well, the sound did come from that way,” Aziraphale says, and he stares at Crowley, automatically sensing that he is thinking the very same thing that crossed his mind. “So. Do we—do we go look?” he asks, bewildered.

Crowley inhales deeply and fiddles with the zipper on his jacket. “I mean, I think it would be stupid to look but even more stupid _not_ to look…” 

“It’s a yes or no question, Crowley.” 

“Yes! But you’re taking the lead,” Crowley says quickly. 

“The hell I am,” hisses Aziraphale, shooting a glare at him. 

“Well, don’t leave me alone, then!” 

“I’m not leaving you alone, you’re exactly a foot away from me,” Aziraphale points out. Crowley rolls his eyes beneath his sunglasses and glowers at Aziraphale, but decides to keep in step with him as they move towards the office. Crowley winces as Aziraphale nudges open the door with caution, half expecting to see something tremendously horrific. Not that he would count a bunch of scattered papers, books, and broken glass—what they did find upon entering the room—tremendously horrific. 

“Oh, God,” groans Aziraphale. “Anathema is going to kill us,” he says. 

“Not if Agnes does it first,” Crowley fires back, trying to lighten the dark mood with some humor. It goes over Aziraphale’s head and Crowley receives a look of warning. 

“That’s not funny, Crowley.” 

Aziraphale takes another step into the room, minding his footing so as not to step on any glass shards. “Do you think it’s in here? The Book?” 

“Could be,” Crowley says with a shrug. Aziraphale stares at him and waves his hands around the room.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s get looking!” Aziraphale exclaims with exasperation. 

“Right, yes,” Crowley says softly. He moves to go left as Aziraphale moves to the right, but he is tugged back as he does. Crowley looks at Aziraphale in the darkness before realizing. 

“You’re still holding my hand, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, looking curiously down at their clasped hands. 

“Your observation skills are truly brilliant, I don’t know how you do it,” Crowley replies dryly. 

“Hush,” Aziraphale scolds. “Mind where you step.” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

They let go of each other’s hands, but Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s fingers sliding across his palm as he moves away, as though he didn’t want to let go. The entire place is filled with clutter, most of it unimportant. It’s just old school assignments, notes, bills, and the occasional textbook, but not _the_ Book. 

“What does it even look like?” Crowley mutters. 

He hears Aziraphale brush aside a pile of mess from behind him. “I have absolutely no idea. If I had to guess, probably old. Most likely well-kept. From what I’ve inferred about Anathema she would never let even a speck of dirt get onto any section of that book.” 

“So old but clean?” Crowley says. 

“Precisely.” 

“Would it look something like this, maybe?” Crowley replies as he slides open a desk drawer, laying eyes on a book with a faded green cover. On the front, in large, gold lettering, the words _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_ were written. 

Aziraphale looks up, a small gasp escaping his lips as he moves to where Crowley is. “Is that…?” 

“Wow,” Crowley says, running his forefinger along with the golden words. “It’s honestly a lot prettier than I had expected.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees. “And it is indeed very well-kept.” 

“Shouldn’t we be wearing gloves or something? To handle it?” Crowley asks. 

“No,” says Aziraphale. “Some do, but gloves can do damage to the book, depending on the type of material they’re made of.”

“I see,” says Crowley, not understanding in the least, but going along with it because Aziraphale seems to know what he is talking about. “Best for you to do the handling, then,” he says. “I’m not an expert on things like that.” 

“Should we take it downstairs, then?” Aziraphale asks. “And have a look at it?” 

“Fine by me,” says Crowley. “Need a hand?” Crowley asks, extending his hand to help Aziraphale up from the floor. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replies, and once again lets his hand linger on Crowley’s. Crowley notices but says nothing nonetheless. “Be careful with that,” he adds as he walks down the stairs. 

Crowley flicks on a lamp on the table by the sofa and takes a seat, opening the book. 

“Shouldn’t we start from the beginning?” Aziraphale asks, glancing at the random page number Crowley has opened to. 

“It’s a magical prophecy book,” Crowley says. “It’ll probably show us what we want to see or something.” 

Aziraphale stares at him. “Alright, then.”

_843\. Two men shall behold f'r the answ'rs to what causes such mis'ry f'r a young mistress of a house._

The pair read in silence, both growing slightly confused. 

“It appears you were right,” Aziraphale murmurs. “It does know something.” 

“Yeah, sure, but what the hell does that even _mean?_ ” Crowley replies, still staring at the words as though it is some completely alien dialect that no person has laid eyes on before. 

“Honestly, dear,” Aziraphale says exasperatedly. “Have you ever taken an English class?” 

“Not like that! That’s just...I didn’t know she was writing Shakespeare.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head but laughs nonetheless. “It’s a learned skill, but it’s not hard to read once you get the hang of it. For example, what Agnes is saying here is that we are looking for answers in this book. On her.” 

“Oh,” says Crowley staring at the page blankly. “Anything else?” 

Aziraphale looks at him and then at the book, reading quickly. “Uh. Not much, or at least not anything that makes...sense—er, Crowley?” 

“Yep.” 

“You’re single aren’t you?” 

Crowley turns his head, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah.” 

“Agnes apparently knows that,” 

“She what?” 

“Look.” 

Aziraphale points at the book, finger tracing just below the line of the prophecy. 

“That’s not—that’s...how could she _know?_ ” 

“She’s a mysterious witch, Crowley, she probably knows a lot.” 

“Yeah, OK, well then why don’t you look at this,” Crowley replies, pointing to another prophecy, number 906. 

_904\. The two spirit hunteth'rs shall anon enjoyeth each oth'r's company, and a blossoming romance shall ensue._

“Great, so she’s a matchmaker, too?” Crowley exclaims. 

Aziraphale laughs uneasily. “She must’ve got it wrong.” 

“The Book doesn’t lie,” Crowley argues, though he is feeling the same awkwardness that Aziraphale is clearly consumed by. “At least not according to Anathema.” 

“Well, she obviously got it wrong. No one can be all-knowing. Plus, we’d never work together.” 

“Ouch,” Crowley teases. “I’ll have you know that most people are swooning as soon as they lay eyes on me.” 

“Right,” 

“They _are!”_ Crowley says. 

“I mean I’ve always been told we should believe in ourselves and if you are telling yourself that people find you a heartthrob, and genuinely believe it then I won’t stop you.” 

Crowley curls his lip moodily. “Oi, shut up, will you?” 

“I’m just saying what I believe is the truth, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, still gazing at the list of prophecies with a small smile playing on his lips. 

“That’s a bit screwed up though,” Crowley says, suddenly very serious. “Don’t you think?” 

“Quite,” concurs Aziraphale. “I mean, if she knows...whatever this is,” he begins with a vague gesture of his hand. “Then she has to know that we’re only here for a week. _Less_ than a week, by now,” he says. 

“Exactly. Besides, I’m not one for flings.” 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows lift slightly. “What?” 

“Flings. Quick romances, if you even want to call them that.” 

“Right. And I’m not looking for romance either, so it’s clear,” Aziraphale says with a pointed glance at the book, as though it would be able to hear him, “that the book is wrong.” 

“So,” says Crowley, trying his best to steer away from the subject of romance. “What do we do with it now?” 

“I haven’t the faintest of ideas,” Aziraphale says, tapping his fingers along the coffee table. “Maybe we should get in contact with Tracy again?” he suggests. “See if she has anything to say about this whole matter.” 

Crowley shrugs. “Could do,” he says. “But at least we have The Book now.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees. “Now we can protect it.” 

“I think it’s a bit weird, don’t you?” Crowley says, cocking his head to the side and staring at the prophecy. 

“What is?” Aziraphale asks. 

“That, if she was the one who caused that whole mess in the office upstairs, directed us to the Book. Why couldn’t she just get it herself?” 

Aziraphale shakes his head and frowns. “She could be lazy,” he tries. 

“I doubt it,” Crowley says. “If she did all that, she obviously knew that something was in there. What if she’s trying to lead us towards something. Or towards her?” 

Aziraphale stares at Crowley. “You have a point there,” he says. “But I’d rather save any further investigation for daylight.” 

“Agreed,” Crowley confirms. “And the office looks like a storm ran through it,” he says. 

“One of us can always sleep on the couch if we want,” says Aziraphale. Crowley shakes his head. 

“This sofa isn’t entirely comfortable. Would you mind...would you mind if we just—shared the bed?” Crowley says, voice rising an octave as he finished the sentence. 

Aziraphale looked around as though someone was watching him through a camera on a reality TV show. 

“I suppose we could. Wouldn’t hurt anyone. The bed is big enough for the both of us,” Aziraphale says. 

“Right. Just for tonight, then?” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale nods. “Just for tonight.” 

* * *

Aziraphale supposes that it could just be his mind playing tricks on him, but the bed, which felt as though it was fairly large when he woke up this morning, seems to have shrunk in size. He purses his lips as Crowley walks in the room, hair still damp from his shower. 

“Side?” rowley mumbles as he approaches Aziraphale. 

“Sorry?” Aziraphale says. 

“Side of the bed,” Crowley replies, gesturing towards the bed with his hand. 

“Er...right. Right side, I mean.” 

Crowley doesn’t reply, but instead simply pads across the carpet and slips beneath the duvet, pulling out his phone. 

Aziraphale stares at him. “You—you don’t mind this, do you?” he asks a little warily. 

Crowley looks up at him from over the top of his mobile. “Mind what?” 

“Sharing? The bed?” Aziraphale says, folding his arms. 

“‘Course not,” Crowley replies, turning his attention back to the screen. 

Aziraphale pauses for a moment. How is it that Crowley seems way less bothered by sharing a bed with someone who he considers a friend but at the same time, barely knows? He sighs deeply and moves to his side, pulling back the covers and staring at Crowley. 

“I don’t bite, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, picking up on Aziraphale’s obvious wariness. 

“No,” Aziraphale replies with a weak chuckle. “Obviously not, but—” 

“Look,” says Crowley, tossing his phone lightly on his lap. “You stay on your side, I stay on mine. Hell, I’ll even get some pillows for in between us, but it’s fine. It’s temporary. Until we clean up the office. It will just be for tonight, even.” 

“Right.” 

Crowley stares at him raising an eyebrow. “It’s not just the bed, is it,” he says in a monotone voice. 

“No, it’s just...I’ve never actually shared a bed with anyone,” Aziraphale admits. 

Crowley’s lip quirks up. “Not even with a sibling?” he asks. 

“Don’t have any,” Aziraphale says. 

“OK, well. I can sleep on the couch if you want.” 

“And risk Agnes murdering you in your sleep?” Aziraphale replies, only half-serious. 

“Nah,” Crowley replies with a grin. “I think she already did her nightly rounds. Kind of a pity we didn’t see her, eh?” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale shrugs. “Or a blessing,” he murmurs, crawling into the bed beside Crowley. 

“Lord, you’re never going to get to sleep if you’re that tense. Relax. Here. Play some Candy Crush,” Crowley says, handing Aziraphale the phone. Aziraphale stares at it like a grandparent who is learning to text for the very first time. 

He clicks a button but accidentally ends the round. “Damn,” he mumbles, handing the phone back to Crowley. “Perhaps I’m not good at that,” he says. 

“Whatever,” Crowley teases. “But in all seriousness,” he adds, taking the phone and setting an alarm for tomorrow morning. “Are you OK?” 

Aziraphale furrows his brow. “What do you mean?” he asks. 

“Well, you looked pretty fucking terrified of those shoes earlier,” Crowley says softly, but with no hint of judgment. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I just have a little fear of blood, that’s all.” 

“I see.” 

“What about you?” he asks, cracking open an eye to look at Crowley. “Are _you_ OK?” 

“I’m never truly OK, but...I guess I’m doing better, at least right now,” Crowley says, concentrating on the ceiling. “Not as lonely,” he says with a slight laugh. 

Aziraphale feels his lips form a small smirk. “As if I’m actually worthy company.” 

Crowley scoffs. “You are. You’re actually very interesting,” he says. 

“Interesting?” Aziraphale replies. “That’s a new one.” 

“Well, you’re intelligent. And you talk about a lot of interesting things. I think that makes you an interesting person,” Crowley says.

“Most people get bored. I do ramble on a lot,” Aziraphale says, smiling fondly at Crowley. 

“Hm, nah. I think it’s neat,” Crowley responds, giving a small wink at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale is quiet for a moment. “This will be an interesting experience to write about,” he mumbles softly. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says with a laugh. “It will. You promise to give me a scene?” 

“Well, it’s more like an informational book, not like a novel.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Same thing.” 

“Quite the opposite, really,” Aziraphale argues, but without his usual smug tone. 

“Do you think people will believe you?” Crowley asks after a long moment, running his hand along the fancy embroidery on the duvet. 

“What?” Aziraphale says. 

“I mean, this is some pretty mad stuff we’re dealing with right now. It’s almost unbelievable. Do you think people will think you’re being honest?” 

Aziraphale thinks for a long moment. The thought that Crowley has given voice to has never actually crossed his mind before. He supposes that Crowley is right. If he were to read a book involving mysterious shoes, a ghost witch, and a book of prophecies that predicts budding romance, he probably would think the whole thing is a scam as well. 

“If it were me—if it were me reading my own book, I mean,” Aziraphale answers slowly. “I think that...perhaps it could be a fake.” 

“And how would you deal with that?” Crowley says, still fiddling with the stitching on the duvet. “When everyone thinks you’re lying but you’re not?” There’s a shadow, a sadness laced in his tone that Aziraphale catches and he looks at Crowley from the corner of his eye. 

“People are...unfortunately, set in their ways. As much as we want to think that we can easily change our views on the world and what happens within it, we can’t. We always believe that we are right. And once someone has opposing views, we assume they’re wrong, even if it’s a subject where there simply cannot be a right and a wrong.” 

“Why?” Crowley asks simply, sounding like a curious young child, who questions absolutely everything. 

“I’m a psychiatrist, Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. “Not an all-knowing being.” 

Crowley flips onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “But you understand how the human brain works, right?” 

“That’s different, though,” Aziraphale says. “And I can’t speak for all humans. But sometimes...even when you know with every fiber of your being that you are the one who is in the right, people won’t believe you. Why, I don’t know. But I’m simply the person who helps them. Who listens to them, and makes sure they don’t go entirely off the rails.” 

“Have you ever lost?” asks Crowley in a low voice. Aziraphale turns his head to look at him. 

“Lost?” he asks. 

“Has someone ever gone entirely off the rails, even after you helped them but nothing worked?” 

Aziraphale sucks in a breath. “Yes,” he says softly. “More than once.” 

“That must be really horrible,” Crowley says, sounding sympathetic. 

“It is,” Aziraphale confirms. 

“What about you, though? If people don’t believe you? If people doubt that you’re going through a struggle and no one is there to listen and help you through it? How do you make sure you don’t go entirely off the rails? Who looks after you?” Crowley says, dead serious. 

Aziraphale stares at him through the dim lighting of the lamps on the bedside table. He has no idea what time it is, but he can only guess that it is one of those hours where every deep question and thought that’s been buried deep down inside him is dredged back up and into the waking world. Things that haunt Aziraphale’s dreams at night, finally being voiced by someone who he’s only known for a little over 48 hours. Aziraphale isn’t sure how to feel about this, but he isn’t entirely uncomfortable. Though maybe that’s just his exhaustion. 

_What about you? Who looks after you?_ Aziraphale replays Crowley’s words over in his mind. And the more he thinks about them, the more he realizes: he doesn’t have anyone. He has work colleagues, sure, but those aren’t people who he would ever confide in. It is just him. 

And in truth, while Aziraphale does enjoy solitude, that is a bit of a problem. So many of the people who come to him, deeply troubled people, are alone. Or, at least they feel as though they are. And Aziraphale needs to be there for them. He might not be able to be their best friend, but he has to be there, to listen and to help. And he can’t do that if he has his own demons to fight as well. 

“No one,” Aziraphale whispers so quietly. Crowley jumps slightly and looks over. 

“Thought you had fallen asleep on me,” he says, focusing back on Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I don’t have anyone. People have me, but I don’t have anyone in return.” 

Crowley frowns. “I know what that feels like,” he says, and something about his voice is sad. Sad, but genuine, and Aziraphale gets the feeling that he isn’t saying that just to make him feel better. 

“I’ve always been that way. Even before now. My friends—the few that I had—told me I was a good friend because I listened. I gave them advice. That’s part of what made me want to go into psychology and helping people, because I knew they were right. And it was the one thing I prided myself on, was understanding their struggles and wanting to help them through it. But they never helped me in return.” 

Crowley nods. “And it’s exhausting. It feels like as much as you want to help others, you feel like you’re then carrying the weight of desperately wanting to solve their problems but then forgetting you have problems of your own.” 

Aziraphale gazes at Crowley for a long moment, how his sharp, angular bones look so perfect in the dim lighting, the way he is staring up at the ceiling. Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed, not until now, that Crowley had taken off his sunglasses. Crowley hadn’t made any sort of comment about it, and Aziraphale wasn’t planning to, but he found it interesting. It was almost like there had been a line between them that was now broken, but without any trust having been breached. But more important than that, Aziraphale finally feels like someone gets it. Gets _him_. Like someone finally understands.

And while he might be the last person Aziraphale was expecting to be having this conversation with, he had a feeling that Crowley was the only person with whom he could ever see himself talking like this. There was something about him, about his confident demeanor and snark that Aziraphale had been enraptured by, like a match creating a spark. And for some reason, he desperately wanted that spark to form into a flame, to see where it would go and what it would do. Because though he would never admit this to anyone—especially not Crowley—he saw bits of Crowley’s personality in himself. Bits that Aziraphale had never shown anyone, and probably would never, but they were there nonetheless. Something was intriguing about Crowley, about the way he held himself, the way he almost seemed to be letting his guard down for Aziraphale in the last few hours that Aziraphale found to be admirable. And if he was being completely and totally honest with himself, Aziraphale was beginning to realize that he saw Crowley as less of a nuisance or an enemy, but more a confidant...a friend. 

“Exactly,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice so soft that he isn’t even sure if Crowley has heard him. 

“I think you’re a better guy than people give you credit for, Aziraphale,” Crowley replies after a moment. 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, flattered. “Really?” 

“Honest. You’re a good person, you know that?” 

“Oh, well, that’s very kind of you but—” 

“You are,” Crowley continues. “You might not be a perfect person, but is anyone?” 

“No.” 

“Exactly. But you are a _good_ person. You do not have to be perfect to be good.” 

“I suppose you’re right.” 

“We’ll solve this, OK? We’ll help Anathema and we’ll figure this out,” Crowley says, staring at Aziraphale, making sure his words get through. 

“I don’t doubt that we will,” Aziraphale replies. “But for now, I am going to sleep.” 

Crowley nods. “Right, yeah.” 

Aziraphale settles down next to him adjusting the covers over his shoulders and flipping onto his side. “Goodnight, Crowley,” he says, flicking out his lamp. 

Crowley turns off his own light, but pulls out his phone once again, starting a new round of Candy Crush. 

Aziraphale sighs. “You’re going to be on that all night, you know.” 

“No,” Crowley protests. “I’ll be on this for an hour and then it’s TikTok.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Good lord, not _that_ one.” 

“What can I say, watching people do stupid things is very entertaining!” Crowley says, and Aziraphale laughs. He’s quiet for another moment and Aziraphale can practically feel Crowley smile slightly from behind him. 

“Go to sleep, angel. I’ll join you in a bit.” 

Aziraphale feels his ears perk up. “What?” 

“Hm?” 

“No, what did you just call me?” 

Crowley looks at him from where he is propped up against the headboard. Aziraphale turns his neck, so he can just see him over his shoulder. Crowley looks incredibly sheepish and Aziraphale doesn’t doubt that he is probably blushing furiously. 

“Nothing.” 

“You called me ‘angel’,” Aziraphale says. 

“Yeah. I did, sorry,” Crowley mumbles, clearly trying his very best to not make eye contact with Aziraphale. He looks like he is going to stare holes through his mobile.

“I don’t mind it,” Aziraphale says gently. “But why?” 

“Why what?” 

Aziraphale has to admit, Crowley is undeniably adorable when he is flustered. It’s sort of frustrating, the way he keeps dodging questions, but Aziraphale also finds it rather endearing. 

“Why did you call me 'angel'?” 

“Er.” Crowley hesitates, fingers tapping on the screen of his mobile, but not hitting anything. “I uh—you ever seen any of Da Vinci’s work? El Greco?” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale replies. He has traveled to numerous spots in Europe over the years with money he has made from his writing and seen many religious places. Not because he truly _wanted_ to visit them, but because they had been on the list of the most touristy attractions. 

“Well, the angels in those paintings—I guess they sort of look like you. At least to me,” Crowley explains. 

Aziraphale smiles. “I see.” 

“I won’t call you that,” Crowley then adds hastily. “If you don’t like being called that then I won’t call you it, but I just kind of thought—and it sort of just slipped out—” Aziraphale laughs slightly and touches Crowley’s arm lightly. He immediately goes silent, staring at Aziraphale’s hand. “Er.” 

“I don’t mind it,” Aziraphale says. “Call me angel if you want. I rather like it. No one’s ever had a nickname for me before.” 

“Really?” asks Crowley, sounding surprised. “Not even Az? Or Azi? Azira?” 

Aziraphale shakes his head and shudders slightly. “Oh, God, no,” he says. “I’ve never liked nicknames like that. I like my name perfectly fine the way it is.” 

“It is a very nice name,” Crowley says. Aziraphale moves his hand away from Crowley’s arm and rests it on his abdomen. 

“Right. Thank you. _Goodnight_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale says. Crowley pauses for a moment, watching Aziraphale shift to get himself comfortable again. “You wanna say the name, don’t you,” Aziraphale whispers feeling Crowley’s gaze on his back. 

“Yeah, kind of,” Crowley admits. 

Aziraphale chuckles. “Alright. Goodnight, Crowley.” 

“Goodnight, angel,” comes the soft murmur. Aziraphale blinks, listening hard as the word lingers on Crowley’s lips. There’s something about his entire tone, the way the word fell off his tongue, the softness of his voice. He sounded fond, and completely and utterly charmed. It was something Aziraphale had never heard in anyone’s voice before, at least not outside of a Hollywood film. It sounded strange, coming from Crowley, but yet the tone suited his low, snake-like voice. He sounded almost in love. 

Aziraphale shakes his head slightly. _Stop overthinking this,_ he thinks to himself. _It’s nothing, it’s three in the morning and you’re tired. Go to sleep._

But he still couldn’t shake Crowley’s voice from his mind, and he still couldn’t shake what The Book had said earlier. _The two spirit hunteth'rs shall anon enjoyeth each oth'r's company, and a blossoming romance shall ensue._

Yes, The Book _must_ be wrong. After all it had been written by some mad lady from the 17th Century. What did she know about modern romance? Aziraphale was sure that if he bet money on getting through the week without any sort of side shenanigans ensuing, he would win. Because The Book had to be wrong. 

Hadn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised my friends that this fic would have the Only One Bed Trope (it's my favorite trope to exist) and I like to keep promises. I hope you enjoyed this chapter -- I'm very excited to continue the story as I FINALLY was able to plot the rest of it out 👀 
> 
> I would love to hear what you thought in the comments. They really do keep me going <3 You can also find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/elxetera) and [tumblr!](https://ineffable-yikes.tumblr.com/)


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